


Oh, Maker

by voluptatiscausa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Bathing/Washing, Body Image, Crowley And Aziraphale share One brain cell, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, Loss of Faith, M/M, Manicures & Pedicures, Massage, Masturbation, Melon Princess, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Sex Dreams, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), canon typical anachronism, manicures, spa days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-07-23 04:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voluptatiscausa/pseuds/voluptatiscausa
Summary: Oh, Maker, have you ever loved?Or known just what it was?I can't imagine the bitter endOf all this beauty that we're living in.-"Oh, Maker", Janelle Monae"The humans are strange and graceful as they explore the garden, explore themselves, explore each other. The trouble is, the humans stare back, which makes him uncomfortable; there’s nothing particularly interesting about him. And, though he rarely admits it to himself, the humans make him lonely; he has no Other to explore."





	1. Apricot and Sandstone

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: https://twitter.com/wrongomens/status/1140672859687325696 and all the ways growing up in a fundamentalist religious environment can fuck you up.
> 
> Chapter ratings will vary.
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by Janelle Monae, may her name be praised. Left At London does a good cover too!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: G

**Eden, 4004 B.C.**

Aziraphale can’t decide what he likes better beneath his feet, sand or grass. Sand is warm, and moves pleasantly to surround his toes. Grass is cool and ticklish. Sometimes he will tear grass up from the ground, and place it beneath his nose. The way it smells when crushed is delightful.

There are so many lovely smells in the Garden. Aziraphale wanders through the greenery, pressing his nose against every new thing he sees. It’s a fairly new sensation - there weren’t many smells in Heaven - and it’s not the only new thing. Touch, now there’s an interesting idea. He really has to hand it to the Almighty for that one.

Right now, he’s running his hand up the bark of an apricot tree. It’s rough and bumpy, and when he tears a bit off he finds there isn’t much smell to it. Rather like the dirt that will come up with clumps of grass. He places the bark gently on the ground, and considers next the fruit of the tree. The fruits are the things he loves most to look at it in the garden, apart from the humans. The humans are strange and graceful as they explore the garden, explore themselves, explore each other. The trouble is, the humans stare back, which makes him uncomfortable; there’s nothing particularly interesting about him. And, though he rarely admits it to himself, the humans make him lonely; he has no Other to explore.

So he stares at the fruit on the tree. It’s spherical, but not perfectly so. The color is magnificent, a gentle red blush fading to orange and yellow. He places his hand against the apricot, traces it with his fingers. It’s soft, and smooth, and delightful. It gives slightly, accepting the pressure. He brings it to his nose, the stem straining, and it pops off the tree.

Aziraphale looks at it in surprise. Has he done something wrong, he wonders? He stares at the fruit for several moments, but it doesn’t seem to be changing in any way. It doesn’t seem damaged. So he brings it to his nose again, inhaling deeply. The soft skin touches his lips, and his brow furrows.

_Hmm. Now why should that feel nicer than when I touch it with my fingers?_

He runs his fingers over his lips, and that feels nice too, but not in the same way. So he brings the apricot back to his lips, and his mouth opens, and it’s as though that lovely smell is now in his mouth. But it’s faint. Tentatively, he touches his tongue to the skin of the apricot, and he can…he can taste it, taste that smell. And he can feel the apricot with his tongue. It feels rougher than it did to his fingers.

_How strange!_

Aziraphale is startled by a faint rustling sound, and looks around almost guiltily, as though fearful he’s been seen. It makes him reconsider. Should he not be touching this apricot? It seems somehow…a bit much to be tracing it with his tongue. Too decadent. These pleasures are for the humans, surely, not for him. He places the apricot gently, so very gently on the ground, and walks away. 

* * *

Crawley narrows his eyes suspiciously as he approaches the apricot. He flicks his tongue at it, tasting and smelling. Why was the Enemy so intrigued? He hisses, unsure, and coils himself around the fruit, nudging it with his nose.

* * *

There’s a new creature in the Garden, and it’s following him. It’s legless, and moves low to the ground, and very quiet. It has a queer little forked tongue that peeks out from its mouth from time to time, and whenever it does, it makes Aziraphale smile. This creature is similar to the snakes he’s seen in the Garden, but he’s not entirely sure it’s the same. This creature is so very much larger - the other snakes are no longer than Aziraphale’s arm, and they’re green and yellow and timid. This creature is a deep red and deeper black, longer than Aziraphale is tall, and seems always to be nearby.

So Aziraphale begins to talk to it. The humans talk to each other, and occasionally even to him, so why not?

“Do you know, there are other creatures like you in the Garden. Not exactly the same, but similar. Have you seen them?”

“What does the grass feel like under your belly, I wonder? Is it nicer than the sand?”

“Have you seen the humans? What do you think? Aren’t they marvelous?”

The creature never answers, but it’s quite nice to have someone to talk to.

* * *

The Enemy will not shut up. Crawley knows that’s a good thing; with all this blathering, he’s bound to get some good intel eventually. But how much more of this inanity is he meant to endure before he’s told something useful? The Enemy stops talking for a moment, and considers him. He tilts his head.

“I think I’d like to show you my favorite spot in the garden. Would you follow me if I walked there, I wonder? “

Crawley can’t roll his eyes in this form, but he flicks out his tongue and gives a hiss. The Enemy only smiles.

“Come along, then.”

The Enemy walks away, looking back to make sure Crawley is “Coming along, then”. Together, they make their way to one of the Garden’s lakes. There’s a smooth sandstone outcropping with a gentle slope leading towards the water, and this is where The Enemy sits.

Crawley hates to admit it, even to himself, but it is glorious. The sun is reflecting on the surface of the clear blue water, and beating down on the sandstone, which warms him from below, and on his scales, warming him from above. He hasn’t been this warm in…too long.

He curls into loose coils and settles in. The Enemy is talking.

“Yes, it’s so nice and hot, isn’t it? What I like to do is wait here for the hottest part of the day, and then I move from this outcropping into the lake. And then when I’m cooled down, I move back onto this rock and enjoy the heat again.”

To Crawley’s surprise, The Enemy says nothing more. They just sit there, the two of them, in warmth and silence. Crawley is dozing when The Enemy stands up and begins to shed his robes.

There’s a pink flush to The Enemy’s skin. It’s in his cheeks and down his neck. When he is fully nude, he lays his robes carefully on the sandstone and begins to walk down to the lake. Crawley watches. The Enemy’s wings are bright in the sunlight, and the skin that was hidden beneath his robes is terribly pale. There’s a softness to his form that Crawley doesn’t quite understand.

The Enemy’s wings flutter and he sighs contentedly when his feet hit the water. He even wiggles his toes and lifts one foot up, then the other, making water stream off the tops of his feet in arcs. he keeps walking, quiet sloshing sounds drifting up to Crawley. The Enemy hums, and starts to walk further into the lake until the water reaches his waist, then stops. He takes a breath, leans forward, and submerges himself completely, even his wings. He surfaces, standing again, and water streams from the crown of his head down over his shoulders, and The Enemy is smiling.

Crawley gives an indignant hiss as The Enemy lifts up his arms and tilts his head back, smiling to the sky.

After spending some time floating on his back, drifting in the water, The Enemy sighs again and stands. Crawley watches as he walks back up the slope, as he ruffles his wings to shake out the water. The pink flush is gone from everywhere except his face. When The Enemy reaches Crawley’s position, he doesn’t put his robes back on. He lays down on his stomach, pillowing his face on his crossed arms, close to Crawley. He spreads his wings out to dry, and closes his eyes.

“I’m sure you see why this is my favorite spot.”

The Enemy opens his eyes, studying Crawley closely.

“Have you tried the water?”

Crawley doesn’t respond.

“Are you too warm, I wonder?”

The Enemy reaches out a slow hand to Crawley’s scales, and Crawley reacts without thinking; his fangs sink into The Enemy, right into the meat of the palm, beneath the thumb.

The Enemy yelps, pulling back his hand. He sits up, his wings hugging in close around his body, and looks at the blood welling up over his skin.

“Well. That’s…new.”

The Enemy doesn’t look when Crawley slithers away - he’s running a finger over the wound, wincing, spreading the blood, fascinated.

Some distance away, Crawley returns to his two-legged form, still tasting blood in his mouth and with a strange regret in his chest. Following The Enemy about was getting him nowhere. It was time to try a new tactic.

* * *

Aziraphale looks at the creature’s true form, and it’s…well, it’s rather beautiful. Those same deep reds and blacks. Auburn hair, ebony wings. And the eyes are the same. A day ago, Aziraphale would have been delighted to be talking to the creature. But now, it’s a bit of an awkward conversation, to tell the truth. He’s distracted, thinking about all the things he’s said to the creature, feeling uncertain. Did he say anything untoward?

But the demon (and yes, it is a demon, Heaven help him, he’s been talking to a demon all this time, telling the demon all about the Garden and the humans) doesn’t seem to feel there’s anything to be uncomfortable about. He’s talking as if Aziraphale had never told him about how he secretly wanted to bite into an apricot, never wondered aloud what it felt like when the humans touched each other. The creature gives his name as casually as if this is the first time they’ve met.

And Crawley expresses doubt in The Almighty just as casually. Aziraphale has never heard this sort of speculation, and he can’t say he really approves.

And then Crawley makes things even more awkward, and asks about the sword.

Oh, dear.

“Gave it away," Aziraphale mumbles. 

“You _what_?”

“I gave it away!”

Aziraphale knew he would have to answer for it eventually, but, really, must he be expected to explain himself to a _demon_?

He tries to ignore the look of surprised delight on Crawley’s faces as he justifies his actions. Making a demon happy surely can’t be a good thing.

The whole conversation makes Aziraphale feel as though he’s lost his balance somehow. Crawley smiles at him, and jokes, and the smile is beautiful. Aziraphale absently runs his fingers over the place on his palm that Crawley’s fangs had pierced.

And then it begins to rain. Without thinking, Aziraphale lifts a wing, and Crawley shuffles over to be sheltered under it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.


	2. I Will Demand an Accounting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the book of Genesis. 
> 
> Chapters 2 & 3 will be short chapters. Longer chapters starting with chapter 4.
> 
> Chapter rating: T (CW drowning and death)

**Mesopotamia, 3004 B.C.**

Aziraphale was dismayed to find that Crawley was still beautiful.

It’d been a full millennium, and he was a demon, and Hell was just _filthy_ , shouldn’t he have started to…ooze, or something?

The warm feeling in his chest at Crawley’s voice was a nice thing though, wasn’t it? Crawley had sounded happy to be running into each other.

The warm feeling faded when Crawley asked what was going on. Aziraphale felt reluctant to say, which was odd. Why should he hesitate to be proud of a plan of the Almighty’s? But the horror on Crawley’s face was hard to bear, and Aziraphale began to feel nauseated even as he struggled to force a loyal explanation from between his lips.

In the end, there was nothing to say that could ease the shame in his throat, so he fell silent, and when the rain began to fall, it was Crawley who lifted his wing. But Aziraphale was still, looking out across the field at all the people who had left off gawping at the ark to tend to their own work. They were tilling the earth, milking goats, working looms. Yelling at giggling children to come inside, out of the rain, you’ll catch your death.

So Crawley stepped closer, and Aziraphale stayed dry a little longer. They stood together as the downpour became torrential, until puddles started to form on the ground around them. They stood together when the river overflowed its banks and the humans started to head for higher ground. The children weren’t giggling any longer. The water, murky and cold, rose up past their toes, past their ankles, past their knees.

There were people knocking on the sides of the ark, crying out to those inside, when Crawley finally spoke, and Aziraphale felt that it wasn’t just the sound of the rain that made his voice seem to come from so very far away.

“Aziraphale…it’s time to go.”

“I can’t. I can’t leave them, Crawley.” There was a break in his voice, and the demon’s response was gentle.

“That’s all right, that’s fine, we can stay, we just need to…just fly up a ways with me, yeah?”

Aziraphale turned to look at Crawley, who was soaked to the skin, deep red ringlets sodden, those remarkable eyes round and wide. He nodded, slowly. They both rose into the air, soundless.

Most of the tribe Noah’s family had left behind made it to the tops of the nearby hills. Some had remained pleading at the ark for too long, and they were the first to drown. The walls of the vessel were high and thick, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if they’d been ignored or merely never heard. He wasn’t sure which was worse. Seeing their corpses floating so near a source of salvation made him feel ill.

It took the full day for everyone to die. The last one to go was a scrawny adolescent boy who had watched his entire family drown. He still stayed afloat for as long as he could while the sun set, gangly limbs paddling, as though there was a reason for his struggle. It seemed too solemn an occasion for tears, and Aziraphale did his best, but when exhaustion at last overcame the boy, his dark curls slipping beneath the water, Aziraphale let out a strangled sob. He curled in on himself, covering his mouth with both his hands, and looked away at last.

* * *

Crawley thought he ought to be commended for his patience, but he had allowed the angel to stay here for far too long. He knew all beings heavenly loved a bit of self-punishment, but this was too much. He took Aziraphale’s wrist and brought his hand away from his mouth. The angel’s skin was soft, and warm despite the chill of the rain. Aziraphale didn’t resist, and slowly unbent to allow Crawley to lead him away, flying them both over all the floating debris, the corpses of animals, the lifeless bodies of hundreds of humans. The clean smell of rain in his nose felt wrong.

_They’re expendable now_ , Crawley thought with malice. _Used to only be two of them, now the Almighty can wipe out a whole tribe when they stop playing nice and it won’t even make a dent._

It was a long flight through the dark; the flood had covered so much land. At length they reached a mountain peak that hand’t been submerged, and Crawley set them down. The air was thin and clear in the grey of pre-dawn. Crawley let go of the angel’s wrist and stepped in front of him, peering into his face. Aziraphale’s teeth were chattering, and he was staring straight ahead, through Crawley. He looked so lost. Crawley wrapped his wings around them both, standing very close but not touching. He had some thoughts to share with the Almighty _vis- à-vis_ punishment and justice and collateral damage, and wanted, very badly, to scream those thoughts until he went hoarse or lightning struck him down. But Aziraphale was already upset, so Crawley had to make do with glaring up at the sky, muttering.

He waited for Aziraphale’s body to bring some warmth into the cocoon he had formed about them, and hoped it would be quick, because though the long hours of flight had dried them, the angel had gone beyond pale to colorless. It seemed wrong somehow. Crawley had a vivid flash of memory - warm sandstone and flushed skin. A happy smile, a friendly voice.

He held those images close while he waited for Aziraphale to come back to himself. In his mind, he wrote a new ending to that afternoon, one with no blood, just sunshine and heat and damp skin. He talked to the angel without really expecting any response.

“There, everything’s fine, we’ll be warm in no time, don’t fret, you’re safe, it’s all right…"

It was all nonsense, really, the things he was saying, but the whole night and day had been silent and he was beginning to fear Aziraphale had broken, somehow.

“Do you remember the place you showed me at the garden, with the sun beating down?”

At first, he kept his voice low. They were standing so close their noses nearly touched. So close that their frigid, dirty toes _were_ touching, and it seemed rude not to whisper.

“You’re all over mud, you know, didn’t realize angels could get dirty. Don’t get any ideas, mind you, doesn’t make me like you any better…”

But the longer he spoke, the sillier the whispering felt, so eventually he was speaking at normal volume to someone who was two inches from his own bloody face.

“What have you been doing since the Garden anyway? Just hanging about with Noah’s family? You mentioned the Australians, have you been, I loved it there…”

He was running out of things to talk about, and there was a point in any venture where it became clear the current tactic was unsuccessful, no matter how much of an optimist Crawley was. The sun was out in full by then, warming them just slightly, even at this altitude.

Crawley pulled his wings back, letting the light hit Aziraphale, and his lips, tired as they were, parted at the sight. The angel looked so beautiful in that moment, as soft and golden as the dawn that illuminated him. But he was staring over Crawley’s shoulder at the colors arcing through the sky. He was whispering to himself, and Crawley leaned in, putting his ear close to Aziraphale’s mouth to catch the words:

“Never again, it’s true, They’ve promised, They’ve _promised_ , never again…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing a little fast and loose with the biblical timeline here re: how long it rained/when the rainbow appeared. You're talking to a former Jesus Camper here like I am Aware.


	3. The Savage Price of Piety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: G

**Golgotha, 33 A.D.**

“I met him too, you know.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I was assigned to strengthen him in a moment of doubt.”

“That’s a bit funny. I tempted him in a moment of faith.”

“A moment of faith?”

“Yes, all that business out in the desert. The Almighty’s presence was right there, watching. They’re the One who ordered the tempting in the first place.”

“No!”

“Yes. Felt a bit silly, to tell you the truth. Like a pantomime put on for a child who’s just a bit too old for that sort of thing.”

“How did he take it?”

“Oh, he was very gracious, played right along. Quoted scripture, denied all the treats and tests I offered. It was funny.”

“Was it?”

“No,” Crowley sighed. “Not really.”

He looked over at Aziraphale who, as Crowley had expected, looked a bit green at the extremity of pain they were witnessing.

“When was it? This moment of doubt?” The final nail was being driven into Christ’s wrist, and Aziraphale tensed but did not look away.

“Just last night,” the angel whispered. “He was so torn, Crowley. He asked three times, if there was any way that he might not be sacrificed. He was very nearly begging. But in the same breath he would say, if it was the will of the Almighty, then let it be so. I’ve never seen a person so terrified. He was sweating blood.”

Crowley hissed in a breath.

“Yes, it was rather awful. And I was sent to give him strength.”

“How did you do it?”

“I’m not sure I did what I was instructed. I think perhaps I was meant to…to speak stirring words, or remind him of his destiny, remind him of all the human souls at stake.”

“And you didn’t do any of those things.”

“No. No, I couldn’t quite bring myself to answer his fear by pressing that responsibility onto him more heavily. He was so scared, Crowley. He was so scared.” There was a note of pleading in the angel’s voice.

“And so?”

“So…” Aziraphale’s forward stare became subtly more deliberate, as though in the moment before he had merely been looking ahead, but now he was not looking at Crowley.

“I encircled him in my wings. I reached out with some of the warmth of heaven.”

Crowley was silent for a moment, studying Aziraphale. There had been the slightest whisper of defiance in Aziraphale's voice, and Crowley searched for that defiance in Aziraphale's profile. There it was, in the subtle lift of the angel's chin, in the set of his jaw. And yet there was a sadness in the eyes that was familiar. In the dry mid-morning heat, Crowley remembered a chill dawn, remembered the way Aziraphale’s skin had felt under his palm. He thought of the lost look on the angel’s face, so close to Crowley’s own, cocooned together in ebony wings. He quashed the regret that he had had no warmth to give then, and no comfort to give now.

“You shut out the world for him, for a moment.”

“Yes, I suppose I did. I never even spoke to him, in the end. He calmed. He didn’t seem afraid any longer. Just…sad, I suppose.”

“Did he have a choice, do you think?”

“Hm?”

“Could he have walked away? Could he have chosen a different path? Chosen not to be a sacrifice?”

“Do you know, I don’t believe he could have.”

Crowley’s jaw clenched, and he breathed out heavily through his nose, failing to keep the anger from his voice.

“It's unbelievably cruel, even for Them. He isn’t human enough to make his own choice. Just human enough to understand what choice is.”

Aziraphale looked less as though he wanted to protest and more that he felt that he should. Crowley spoke again after a moment.

“My side is going to send one too, you know.”

“One what?”

“A…a prophet, of sorts. One who would be the opposite of yours. A sort of…anti-Christ.”

“I’m quite certain you shouldn’t be telling me this.”

“I’m quite certain you’re correct.”

They stood together as before, witnesses to a slow death decreed by God. Crowley knew Aziraphale would want to stay until the end, but perhaps there was a way to convince him not to linger. What good could it do? Christ certainly wouldn’t notice, and the angel needn’t suffer. But before he even opened his mouth to try, he heard Aziraphale begin a whispered plea -

"No, please-" interrupted almost the same moment by a loud cry from Christ, clear and carrying.

“ _Eloi, Eloi!_ ”

Crowley saw Aziraphale’s flinch.

“They won’t answer you, _Lamb of God,"_ Crowley said, low and angry. _  
_

There was a moment of dreadful silence before Christ gave a ragged gasp and asked a question that struck Crowley like a blow.

“ _Lama sabachthani?_ ” 

* * *

Aziraphale couldn't help but agree with the disbelief he heard in the choked sound Crowley made at Christ's cry. He had felt the Almighty withdraw Their presence from Their son, and could scarcely believe the cruelty. And when Crowley continued the Psalm that Christ had begun, there was so much bitterness in the demon's voice Aziraphale felt he would bleed from the sharpness of it.

"Why are You so far from helping Me,  
And from the words of My groaning?  
O My God, I cry in the daytime, but You do not hear;  
And in the night season, and am not silent.  
But _You_ are holy, Enthroned in the praises of Israel.  
Our fathers trusted in You; They _trusted_ , and You delivered them.  
They cried to You, and were delivered;They trusted in You, and were not ashamed.”

Aziraphale had seen Crowley since the flood. They’d been courteous to each other, and a sort of truce had been established. Crowley didn’t try to interfere with Aziraphale’s angelic works, Aziraphale didn’t try to thwart any wiles of Crowley’s. They’d even had the occasional friendly conversation, as though they were old colleagues. Aziraphale even had the pleasure of seeing Crowley smile and hearing him laugh from time to time, the corners of his beautiful eyes crinkling in the most charming way. 

But they hadn’t touched. Not once, not though Aziraphale sometimes thought he could still feel the demon’s gentle hand on his, shepherding him away from death and despair, pulling him to a place that was clean, sheltering him in the quiet of his lovely wings.

Much as he wanted to, Aziraphale couldn’t shelter Crowley now, not in that way, not with so many humans standing shoulder to shoulder with them. Things had changed in the past several millennia, the humans weren’t used to that sort of thing anymore. And (harder to bear), the edges in the demon’s voice made Aziraphale feel it was presumptuous in the extreme to imagine such a thing would be welcome.

But even so, Aziraphale found it a hard thing not only to deny Crowley this comfort, but also to deny himself this chance to touch the demon. He often kept his hands clasped when they were together, the temptation to reach out was so great. And so his sorrow for Crowley and the greed in his fingers won out. Besides, he knew what came next in the Psalm.

He took Crowley’s hand. It was a slow, soft gesture, and Aziraphale was preparing himself to be rebuffed even as he was reaching. But Crowley didn’t pull his hand away. His fingers felt smooth, and oddly cool in Aziraphale’s own, and he returned the grip tightly. And though Aziraphale stared intently, searching Crowley’s face, Crowley kept his gaze on Christ, seeming lost in thought. And he didn’t, in the end, finish the Psalm. He spoke only one more line, and then fell quiet.

“‘But _I_ am a worm, and no man.”

When the demon turned, Aziraphale saw an expression so bleak it was frightening. Heaven help him, Aziraphale wanted to kiss the sadness from Crowley’s face. He very nearly did, even brought his free hand forward, holding within it a caress that would have been far too tender to explain away, but Crowley jerked back.

“And thisss is where you give your allegiance,” Crowley snarled.

He dropped Aziraphale’s hand, and everything felt wrong. The sudden emptiness of his fingers, the hot morning air on his open palm. The disgust on Crowley’s face. Wrong.

One of the Roman soldiers took up a spear and pierced Christ’s side, and Crowley turned and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the song, "Poor Isaac" by the Airborne Toxic Event.
> 
> Biblical references include:
> 
> The temptation of Christ (Luke 4)  
> Christ at Gethsemane (Luke 22:43)  
> Psalm 22


	4. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the baths in Rome. 
> 
> Chapter rating: M

**Rome - 41 AD**  
  
“What have you got?”  
  
Aziraphale reacted to the sound of that voice instantly, as though he’d been waiting for it. He sat up straighter, straining his ears, and by the time Crowley had finished his order, Aziraphale was standing next to him.   
  
He approached a little tentatively, the tips of his fingers touching in an uncertain gesture. Their last parting hadn’t been so very long ago, and Crowley had seemed very angry. Too, there had been something…sad, maybe? Or bored? about Crowley’s voice, and Crowley’s words to the woman behind the bar, that Aziraphale did not like.   
  
Well. If Crowley was sad, Aziraphale would cheer him. And if Crowley was bored, Aziraphale would give him something to do.   
  
“Crawley-Crowley?”   
  
He had stumbled on Crowley’s name, and Crowley didn’t look happy to see him, or even surprised, or…or anything, really, but it was Crowley, (even if he had cut his hair so very short), and Aziraphale just couldn’t help it. He was beaming as he took a seat next to the demon.   
  
And then he asked a very stupid question, and Crowley’s response was swift and angry. (Privately, Aziraphale thought aardvarks were rather adorable, but now did not seem quite the time to point it out. )  
  
Something was wrong, he was certain of it. Crowley’s shoulders were hunched, and when he sipped his ale, he didn’t seem to be tasting it. It was like he was just bringing the jug to his lips and swallowing because he knew that was what one did with a jug of ale. Crowley seemed to be listening with only half an ear.  
  
“I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”  
  
“I’ve never eaten an oyster.”  
  
“Oh! Oh, well let me tempt you to -“  
  
And there, finally, was a glimpse of the Crowley he knew. It put Aziraphale in mind of the way Crowley had looked at him when he admitted to giving the sword to the first humans, surprise mingled with delight. Except it was less pronounced this time, as though Crowley didn’t quite have the energy to exclaim. And Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes. They’d been so striking at that moment, back at the start of the world (“you _what?_ ”), open, curious. Alive.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t know what troubled Crowley - if whatever bitterness had been in his voice eight years ago still weighed on him, if he was unhappy, if he was merely not feeling well today. But he did know he wouldn’t feel easy until he had seen Crowley smile.

* * *

  
  
Crowley allowed himself to be dragged to Petronius’s for oysters. He wasn’t really interested in oysters, but then, he wasn’t much interested in anything these days. He felt, vaguely, that he should be a bit warmer to Aziraphale, who was, after all, treating him to dinner and valiantly carrying along a lively, if one-sided, conversation. It wasn’t as though Crowley wasn’t trying. He was putting more of an effort into interacting normally with the angel than he had put into anything in the past eight years. But every response seemed to need to be dragged, painfully, to his lips, as if from very far away.   
  
Still, Aziraphale seemed unruffled. He was friendly, and warm, and smiling.   
  
_Tempting_.  
  
So Crowley sampled the oysters, and although he wasn’t sure what Aziraphale was raving about, there was something restful about sipping his wine, looking out over the piazza in the late afternoon sun, and just listening. Crowley felt that ever-present tension he’d been carrying start to loosen, just a little.  
  
“So? What did you think?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“The oysters, did you enjoy them?”  
  
“Oh. They’re alright, I suppose. Wine’s good, though.”  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips together in half-smile. They sat together in silence after that for a long while, and Crowley’s sense of ease began to turn to anxiety. He wondered if the angel was waiting for something, or if he wanted to leave his sullen dinner companion but was too polite to say so. He wanted to say something, give Aziraphale an excuse to leave if he wished, but he couldn’t seem to find the words through the fog in his mind.   
  
“Do you know what I think you need, Crowley?”  
  
Aziraphale’s voice was warm as the sun-drenched stones on which they sat.  
  
 _Oh, angel. If only you could tell me_.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“You need a visit to the baths.”  
  
Crowley snorted.   
  
“No, really! It’s the most relaxing thing. Do say you’ll come.”  
  
Crowley looked over at Aziraphale at the words, and at the coaxing tone they held. There was a hopeful look on the angel’s face, and such reassurance that Aziraphale still wanted his company despite his difficulty conversing held a strong pull. And so Crowley allowed himself to be convinced that what he needed was a visit to the baths, and when they entered the caldarium, and the stream wrapped around his limbs and filled his chest, Crowley felt himself loosen a little more, and wondered if Aziraphale had been right.   
  
The room was empty save for the two of them, and Crowley suspected the angel had performed a minor miracle to make it so. The heat was so heavy it practically held him, and the sounds of their bare feet padding across the tile floor echoed slightly as they made their way to the pool.   
  
Aziraphale hesitated at the edge of the pool, fiddling with one edge of his robe. Crowley couldn’t help but find this a bit charming.  
  
“Don’t forget, I’ve seen your arse before, Aziraphale. No need for modesty.”  
  
Aziraphale huffed.  
  
“You’re not going to bite me this time, are you?”   
  
But Aziraphale was smiling shyly as he said it, and Crowley laughed for the first time in nearly a decade.  
  
Aziraphale smiled even wider at that, dropped his robes, and sank into the water. Crowley allowed himself a long, leisurely glance at the angel’s body from behind his tinted glasses. There was that softness he remembered. There was that softness he’d been recalling for the past three millennia. He wondered, as slid into the pool, if the angel’s body felt as soft as it looked. Aziraphale’s hands were soft, he knew that. But what would it be like to run his palms over the angel’s chest, his arms, his thighs?  
  
Would it feel like a comforting weight to hold that softness tight to his own body?  
  
He settled himself not too far from Aziraphale, in the curve at one end of the pool. He leaned his head back, and sat with his elbows tucked into his hips, arms on his thighs. Several peaceful moments passed by in silence before he looked over at Aziraphale, whose face and neck were pinking in the heat and steam, and who was wearing an expression of such pure contentment that Crowley laughed again, the sound echoing off the tiles.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I’ve seen that face you’re making before, too. Love a good soak, don’t you?”  
  
Aziraphale glanced down with an embarrassed smile, looking at Crowley sidelong.   
  
“I suppose it _is_ an indulgence, but it doesn’t do any harm.”  
  
“‘Course not. Mind you, that doesn’t mean the Almighty won’t up and decide it’s wrong someday. Best not get too attached.”  
  
Crowley had meant it as a jest, but perhaps he was out of practice, because his voice carried an edge. Crowley watched the smile on Aziraphale’s face die, slowly. There was a hesitant silence before the angel asked, quietly, “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”  
  
Crowley didn’t lift his head from where it rested, but turned to look over at Aziraphale through the steam. He could just make out the expression on the angel’s face, concerned and a bit nervous.   
  
“I’d tell you if I knew. It’s nice here, though. I feel as though I’ve been exhausted for years, and today I’ve been able to rest.”  
  
“You do seem rather tired.”  
  
“Mm. ’S different. Right now I feel sleepy, not tired. Does that make sense? It’s not pleasant, exactly, but it is a bit of a break.”  
  
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, you don’t seem quite yourself. Have you been overworking?”  
  
“I’m a demon, Aziraphale. We’re not known for our work ethic.”  
  
“Perhaps not. But you’ve always kept busy. And I’ve never seen you so…withdrawn, Crowley. It’s not like you to let me prattle on like you did at Petronious’s.”  
  
Crowley frowned.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“My dear fellow, you needn’t apologize, I was talking absolute tosh, I’m sure of it.” The angel’s voice became very quiet. “I was glad to hear you laugh.”  
  
Crowley’s heart gave an odd little tremor in his chest.  
  
“I was…glad to be laughing. I don’t laugh much anymore.” He felt a wave of resentment toward what seemed to him his entire, broken, being. “I don’t smile. Or dance. Or sleep. Or eat. Know we don’t need to, but still. Used to feel nice. Lots of things used to feel nice.”  
  
Crowley took off his glasses and laid them down at the edge of the pool, and ran his wet hands over his face. He gave a bit of a groan as he dropped his arms back through the water into his lap before continuing.   
  
“Don’t think I’ve had a wank in five years, at least.”  
  
Aziraphale didn’t make a noise at that, exactly, but Crowley could hear the angel’s breathing hitch. Crowley had seen, despite the steam, that Aziraphale hadn’t made an effort. He was just as he’d been at the beginning, and perhaps this wasn’t a polite thing to discuss.  
  
“Don’t mean to embarrass you. ’S just. Another thing I feel like I’ve lost.”  
  
“I’m not embarrassed.” Crowley smiled to see the angel, who was, unsurprisingly, a terrible liar, pinking even more. “Is there anything I can do to help?”  
  
“With the wanking?”  
  
This time Aziraphale most definitely _did_ make a noise, a sort of choked splutter, and Crowley watched with growing delight as he turned a lovely shade of rose red and opened and closed his mouth several times.  
  
“You’re _actually_ considering it, aren’t you?”  
  
“What! I…I don’t…I’m not…Is that…I’m…?”  
  
The increasing desperation on the angel’s face as he tried to puzzle out the moral ramifications of his desire to help and soothe all beings resulting in an inadvertent offer of a hand job was beautiful to see. Despite this (and despite the little voice that spoke to Crowley from somewhere in the vicinity of his cock pointing out that, well, if a hand job was on offer, perhaps one ought not refuse), Crowley took pity.  
  
“A joke, Aziraphale.”  
  
“Of course, of course it was”, Aziraphale said in a rather high-pitched voice.  
  
Crowley was considering how best to put Aziraphale back at his ease when the angel spoke again, the confusion gone.  
  
“How long have you felt this way?”  
  
There was an abundance of sincere concern in Aziraphale’s voice that Crowley simply had no defense against.  
  
“I think you know the answer to that, Aziraphale.”  
  
“Golgotha.”  
  
Crowley held the angel’s gaze as he nodded, once. He tried to keep any sort of accusation from his expression, but he must have failed, because —  
  
“I have to tell you, Crowley, I’m…I’m sorry. I should have followed you that day. I should have made sure you were safe, and well.”  
  
“Don’t blame yourself. Wouldn’t have listened to you, anyway.”  
  
“That’s not the point, I didn’t want to lecture you. You were upset, and you’re my —“  
  
And, oh, Crowley’s heart was in his throat at the possessive, a dreadful anticipation as he waited to hear exactly what he was to the angel —  
  
“—My friend.”  
  
Aziraphale said it again, as though affirming a new certainty.  
  
“You’re my _friend_ , Crowley.”  
  
“Am I, then?”  
  
Crowley said it softly, looking down at his hands. Just to be sure. Just to give Aziraphale the opportunity to retract the sentiment. It was only polite.  
  
“Yes.” When Crowley raised his gaze, he saw Aziraphale’s chin was up, stubborn. Almost defiant. “Yes, you are.” A thought seemed to occur to him, and he turned his head and added, rather sharply, “Whether you like it or not!”  
  
Crowley had indeed been formulating some sort of argument in his mind as to why he could certainly not be Aziraphale’s friend, Aziraphale could not possibly want a friend such as he, I’m a demon, you’ll be tainted by association, etc. But he kept these protests behind his lips at the ferocity in Aziraphale’s voice.  
  
He thought about what it meant to be Aziraphale’s friend, felt out the shape of such a relationship in his mind. He understood that there was an element of claiming in it, and felt an absurd desire for a witness. A third party to confirm what had passed, as it were.   
  
_Yes, this gentleman here has named the gentleman next to him ‘friend’. Can’t take it back, I was here, heard the whole thing, yes I’ll swear an oath to it._   
  
_Crowley is Aziraphale’s friend._  
  
 _I am his friend._  
  
“And I’m yours.” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, his words carrying heat to Crowley even through the steam.

* * *

  
  
Hours later, when they had bade each other farewell and made plans to meet in a week’s time to take in a play, Crowley lay in his bed. He had managed to put clean linens on his bed, and open a window to the cool night air. He'd eaten well, if only mechanically, and still felt the absence of his usual tension with relief.  
  
The baths especially had been lovely. Crowley still smelled like the oils, scented with Turkish sweetgum, that had been rubbed into his skin by an attendant after his long soak with Aziraphale. The angel had chosen a rose-scented oil, which Crowley thought suited him. And, _Hell_ , had that been a sight. The angel’s soft skin glistening, the look of pleasure on his face at the attendant’s firm touch. Crowley wouldn’t have described the emotion he felt, watching hands that were not his own slide easily across the angel’s naked skin, as jealousy, precisely. It had been no hardship to watch. Only, his fingers had twitched to join pampering Aziraphale. Aziraphale, Crowley thought, deserved pampering. He deserved these small luxuries. Deserved rose scented oils, languorous massages, decadent meals. The angel tried so hard to do what was right. To ease distress wherever he saw it.  
  
Crowley felt his cheeks warm with the memory of his careless mention of self-pleasure to Aziraphale. It was only, whatever melancholy had been following Crowley the past eight years had taken so much from him. Was a time he’d have a glass of something strong and a wank most nights before bed. It had been a lovely routine, oddly comforting, and resulting in the most delightfully refreshing sleep. 

Lazily, he reached down and hiked up his tunic. With more defiance at the fog he’d been living in than enthusiasm for the act itself, he closed his eyes and began trailing his hand slowly over the flatness of his stomach and into the edges of his hips. This was how he always started, with caresses all over his body. Not to mimic the hands of a lover, but simply because touch felt good. And though the end result of masturbation was usually an orgasm, the orgasm wasn’t the _point_. The _point_ , he had always believed, was pleasure. And touch was pleasurable. And so he felt himself growing hard as he ran his fingers along the insides of his thighs, enjoyed the feeling of his breath quickening as he tweaked a nipple, before finally wrapping his fingers around his cock, and giving a long, slow stroke.  
  
Crowley was surprised by the spike of pleasure that shot through him -  
  
 _Oh, yes_ -  
  
Oh, yes, _this_. This lovely feeling. He miracled some oil into the palm around his shaft, still caressing the inside of his thighs with his free hand. He hadn’t meant it to be so, but the oil smelled of roses, and he groaned as the scent hit his nose and sent another spike of pleasure through him. He kept the rhythm slow, thinking vaguely of steam and pink skin. It was slow and lazy until the end, when he began to moan, and sped up to the thundering beat of his heart, pumping fast into his slick fist until he came, gasping, across his fingers and onto his belly.   
  
Still lazy, he miracled the mess away without opening his eyes. His chest rose and fell in deep breaths. He’d skipped the alcohol, but his body still felt languorous and peaceful in a familiar way. So, to his own surprise, he fell asleep rather quickly, the scent of roses in his nose and even a faint smile on his face as he remembered the quiet certainty in Aziraphale’s voice when he had said, “..and I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I had a weekend-long party I go to every year that's about the only time I'm ever social.
> 
> Thank you so much everyone for your kind comments. It's great to see others connecting to the idea of a Crowley who has anger towards a God who cast him out, and a complicated response to the notion of the Crucifixion of Jesus as a means of salvation.


	5. Blossoming Alone Over You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swords, innuendo, manicures, just best friend things.
> 
> Chapter rating: M

**Wessex, 537 A.D.**

Crowley thought about the pointlessness of doing any sort of work with the angel around. He thought about the pointlessness of doing any sort of work, full stop. He thought about how Aziraphale had looked in full, shining armor. About how Aziraphale’s voice had sounded when it rang out in the mist; confident, gallant. Powerful. Not a tinge of the doubt that had been there in their conversation before the flood, none of the confusion of Golgotha, none of the easiness of Rome.   
  
He wondered what more there was to discover.   
  
Crowley didn’t know, for example, if angels could be angry. The Almighty had a certain flair for that particular emotion, of course, but that didn’t mean much when it came to angels. He remembered when he had bitten Aziraphale, the give of his flesh under his fangs, the coppery taste of his blood - and the angel had only looked at the wound with curiosity. With wonder, even.  
  
And he thought of the sword Aziraphale had been carrying in the fog, and most of all, he wondered if Aziraphale could fight. He’d had a sword at the Beginning, too, but hadn’t spent much time guarding the Eastern Gate. He seemed mostly to wander and explore.   
  
Crowley took a last swig of his ale, and smiled.   
  
_One way to find out._

* * *

  
  
Aziraphale was praying by the light of the fire when he heard the demon’s voice outside his door.   
  
“Oy, Aziraphale! Come out here for a minute, would you? Got a question!”  
  
He rose from the floor, brushed off his knees, muttering.   
  
“Crowley, what on earth are you yelling about-“  
  
He broke off as soon as he opened the door; Crowley was holding the point of a sword to his throat.   
  
“Now, really. Is this the solution you’ve come to? Seems like a bit more work than you’re generally willing to put in, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”  
  
The demon had no helmet or armor. The mists had cleared, and by the light of the moon and stars Aziraphale could see that he was dressed simply now, in breeches and shirt. Aziraphale would have had trouble pulling his eyes from the sharpness of Crowley’s collar bones, from the white of the linen parting to reveal the hollow at the base of Crowley’s throat, had it not been for those eyes. Lord, those _eyes_. Aziraphale could only hope that he was managing to arrange his face in an expression that matched the cool disdain of his words, rather than the foolish sighing of his heart.   
  
_Focus, Aziraphale, he’s talking to you-_  
  
“Beg to differ. Seems like an easy fix, considering I’ve never actually seen you use a weapon.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous, you know I had a sword at the Beginning - “  
  
“Never saw you use it though, did I?”  
  
“How would I know what you did or did not see, what with all your spying?”  
  
“Could you even wield the thing?”  
  
“I was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, of course I could wield it-“  
  
“All right, no need to get defensive, sword play isn’t to everyone’s taste, I’m sure you have other talents-“  
  
“I’m _not_ being _defensive_ -“  
  
“Have you even got a sword?”  
  
“Of course I have -“  
  
Aziraphale broke off this time not because Crowley was speaking over him, but because Crowley’s eyes were darting between Aziraphale’s face and Aziraphale’s…well…between Aziraphale’s legs. The angel was wearing only a long nightshirt, and Crowley was waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
Aziraphale felt his face go red.   
  
“Now, _really_!”  
  
“It’s a fair question, Aziraphale.”  
  
Crowley kept his eyes on Aziraphale’s as he lowered the point of his weapon and took a step to close the space between them.  
  
“It’s not standard issue, so to speak,” he continued in a lower voice. Aziraphale could feel the heat of Crowley’s breath, could see the pinpricks of red in the deep black pupils of his eyes, and only barely stopped himself from offering up a prayer for mercy. It did not seem wise to call the Almighty’s attention to the desires Aziraphale was trying, desperately, to control.  
  
“Have you. Got. A sword?”   
  
Aziraphale didn’t answer. He felt in that moment that he wanted something else to fight besides the now-familiar clamor of his heart, and Crowley seemed to be offering. So he turned his back on the demon, walked the few paces to the side table where his sword lay. He pulled it from its scabbard, walked fifteen paces past Crowley out the door, and turned to face the demon with his sword raised.  
  
“Come along, then.”  
  
Crowley _smiled_ , damn him, smiled!   
  
And then the demon raised his own sword, and ran full tilt.

* * *

  
  
The answer was yes, very much a yes.   
  
Angels could get angry, and Crowley was delighted.   
  
And yes, Aziraphale could fight.  
  
 _Hell_ , he could fight.   
  
Aziraphale was so much faster than Crowley would have guessed, and stronger, too. There must be firm muscle underneath that softness, and Crowley wanted to feel it, touch that paradox with his fingers. Swiftly following was jealousy, wondering who he been practicing with all these years, how he had kept his skill. And as their bout continued, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was really better at swordplay than he was, or if he was simply so enthralled by the experience of violence at Aziraphale’s hands that he was unable to focus properly.  
  
Because the anger rolling off the angel was exhilarating; Crowley would have called it righteous fury, but there was too much a measure of offended pride in it. Aziraphale was not restraining himself, and he was not smiling, and there was nothing soft in the way he swung his blade. Something in Crowley was answering to that aggression, and the satisfaction he felt every time Aziraphale’s sword crashed heavily against his own was not a feeling he cared to analyze. He could feel joy and hope and yearning rising in his chest at such ungovernable heights that his breath hitched even as he smiled, wide and true.  
  
Aziraphale disarmed him with a blow too swift to block, the flat of his blade smacking Crowley’s fingers and forcing them to open. Crowley dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees with that smile still on his face. It didn’t falter when the angel, stone-faced, brought the tip of his sword to the base of Crowley’s throat. They stared at each other while the mud soaked through Crowley’s breeches, chilling him and making him shudder.   
  
“Do it, Angel.” He couldn’t have kept the pleading from his voice, even if he’d wanted to try. “I’d give anything to see it.”  
  
Aziraphale blinked, and his face became soft again. Lowering his weapon, he sighed and offered Crowley his hand.  
  
Much as he wanted to stay where he was, kneeling before the angel, Crowley took it, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Face to face with Aziraphale, still clutching his hand, that smile slid off his face.  
  
Aziraphale’s deep blue eyes were catching the starlight; his cheeks were flushed, and he was breathing heavily. After a silence that seemed to Crowley terribly loud and during which he almost dared to hope he would be soundly kissed by a furious angel, Aziraphale spoke.  
  
“Do you have your answer, then? To whatever question it was you came here to ask?”  
  
Crowley nodded, feeling helpless.   
  
“Come inside, then. You need a drink.”

* * *

  
  
Having the demon in his home was new, but not altogether unexpected. Aziraphale had imagined it before. He’d had many lonely nights over the centuries, and there was only one being on this plane of existence he could really talk to with any sort of openness.   
  
That being was Crowley. And so on a given night he thought about what he might say to Crowley if he were there, about what Crowley might think of that night’s supper and wine or ale, what Crowley might be wearing when he slept.   
  
Just idle musings.   
  
And so he felt a sense of contentment, as he poured Crowley a glass of wine, handed it to him, poured another for himself. He raised it in a silent toast, and they drank.  
  
It was a small home, more of a hut really, with only one chair, and so Aziraphale sat on the low bed, back straight. Crowley began walking towards him in that slow, graceful way of his, hips swinging. Aziraphale wondered how, precisely, he was meant to survive eternity without ogling his dearest friend, who insisted on making his every movement a temptation. Aziraphale looked into his wine, swallowing around the shame that always accompanied his lust. He was an angel, he was supposed to be a being of pure love. _Agape,_ not _eros_.Aziraphale silently scolded himself as Crowley crossed the room, and sat on the floor at his feet, leaning against his legs.   
  
They very rarely touched. This was a new intimacy, and Aziraphale rather liked it, but it came on the heels of disgust at his own desire. He was confused, and nervous. And there was something about having Crowley at his feet that felt wrong, somehow. Unbalanced. He would have been more comfortable on the floor. Leaning against Crowley. Too, there was greater temptation in this position, as he could look his fill at the demon without worrying that his face would betray his thoughts. He struggled, but it was a losing battle, and he sighed as he took in the sight of Crowley’s lovely form leaning back against him. No doubt he would berate himself later for the indulgence, but right now, he simply looked. Wished he could run his fingers through the silk of Crowley’s shoulder length ringlets. They were a bit mussed, and there was an oh so slight color in Crowley’s cheeks from the exertion and the wine.  
  
When Crowley broke the silence, his voice was pensive.  
  
“I meant what I said earlier, you know. About canceling each other out. I really don’t think there’s much of a point, Aziraphale. And I meant what I said about the climate as well, it’s too wet here. Bloody mist and fog. There’s so much mud, I mean just look at my hands!” And Crowley lifted his right hand up above his shoulder for inspection.   
  
Aziraphale leaned down, a bit awkwardly, to set his glass on the floor, and took Crowley’s hand in both his own. There was dirt beneath his fingernails, which were rather ragged, and his skin felt dry and cold. Aziraphale felt a sharp pang of guilt at the sight of the badly bruised knuckles.  
  
“Well, that’s something I can fix at least.” 

* * *

  
  
Crowley felt Aziraphale stand up, gently dislodging him from his place leaning against the angel’s legs.  
  
“What are you doing?” Crowley’s watched Aziraphale’s purposeful stride warily as the angel retrieved a basin from the table, then placed it on the floor and knelt so the basin was between them. Aziraphale miracled warm water into the basin, and a lump of soap into his hand.   
  
“Ah.”  
  
Crowley lowered his hands into the water, sighing as the warmth seeped into his chilled fingers. Aziraphale took Crowley’s right hand, leaving the left to soak. Crowley’s fingers curled in the water as the angel’s hand lingered on the bruising caused by his disarming strike. Crowley saw the bruise fade under Aziraphale’s caress, and was sad to see it go. Then the angel worked the soap to a lemon-scented lather before setting it aside and beginning to scrub. The slide of Aziraphale’s hands over his own was soft, and warm, and Crowley tried very hard to breathe normally.   
  
“So,” said Aziraphale. He had scrubbed the dirt and mud away, now had a pair of small scissors in his hand, and he began to trim Crowley’s nails. “This nonsense about canceling each other out.”  
  
“It’sss not nonsense, Aziraphale, it’s simple maths. Imagine we’re both pushing on the same door from opposite sides, it’s not going to budge and we’re just going to wear ourselves out. Why not just leave the humans to it if we’re not going to make a difference?”  
  
The angel pressed his lips together primly, and gave what Crowley thought was really quite an unconscionably self-righteous raise of the eyebrows as he began to scrub at Crowley’s even nails with a small brush that hadn’t been there the moment before.   
  
“This seems an awful a lot of miracles for a manicure.”  
  
“Don’t change the subject, Crowley. You and I both know humans have a much more complicated mechanism of operation than doors.”   
  
“Do they, though? Give a human enough gold, they’ll do anything you tell them. I do mean anything. It’s predictable, and even if we weren’t canceling each other out —“  
  
“We’re not canceling each other out.“  
  
“Even if we weren’t cancelling each other out, I’m getting bored, Aziraphale. What sort of job satisfaction am I supposed to be getting out of tempting humans to do things they’d be doing anyway given a free afternoon?”  
  
“That’s rather a dim view of humanity. And one I’m not sure is entirely fair given how you spend _your_ afternoons.”  
  
“And how do _you_ spend your afternoons these days, polishing your armor?”  
  
“What?” Aziraphale laughed.  
  
“Don’t laugh at me, I mean it, you walked out of the mist today looking so clean and shiny, how did you manage it?”  
  
“I’m sorry!” He was still laughing. “I’ll make an effort to dirty myself up next time—“  
  
Crowley, who had brought his glass to his lips with his free hand, sputtered and choked on his wine.  
  
“Yes, thank you Aziraphale.” He recovered his breath and continued in a salacious purr. “If you could manage to get a bit dirty that would be lovely.”  
  
“Now, really! That’s quite enough innuendo for one evening, what with your talk of _swords_ earlier, Heavens, do grow up.”  
  
Aziraphale had finished with the cleaning and trimming, and dried Crowley’s hands with a soft towel.  
  
Crowley, had he known what Aziraphale was about to do, might have reconsidered his next words. But —  
  
“Have you, then? Got a—“  
  
—Aziraphale began to massage some sort of oil into Crowley’s left palm with a firm pressure that was absolutely divine, causing Crowley to moan the last word of his sentence—  
  
“— _cock_?”  
  
Aziraphale slowed, but didn’t stop, and looked into Crowley’s eyes as the silence lengthened with an expression Crowley could not read.  
  
Crowley managed to hold the angel’s gaze while wondering if one could discorporate from pure mortification. That moan had been utterly real, and infinitely more heated than any innuendo. Aziraphale was still touching him, still applying that delicious pressure, but what if he no longer wished to be friends? A chill crept down Crowley’s neck at the thought, and he opened his mouth to apologize. Apologize for the question, for the moaning, for the teasing. But Aziraphale spoke first, very quietly, and with a note of genuine but gentle reproof in his voice.  
  
“You’re making assumptions, Crowley.”  
  
Crowley swallowed as Aziraphale moved on to his right hand, giving it the same gentle attention as the left.  
  
“I suppose I am. I’m sorry.”  
  
“I forgive you. And I’m sorry, too.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
The angel ran his fingers over Crowley’s now-healed knuckles, looking down at their joined hands.  
  
“For hurting you.”  
  
Crowley struggled to answer. The tenderness in Aziraphale’s voice was dangerous.   
  
_Don’t hope. Don’t hope, Crowley._  
  
“You healed me, too.”  
  
“That doesn’t make it right, and you know it. Forgive me?”  
  
Aziraphale was holding his hands, and looking into his eyes as though Crowley’s forgiveness was something worth having. His heart hammering in his chest, Crowley could only nod, but Aziraphale seemed satisfied. He released Crowley’s hands, now clean and soft, and his voice was light.  
  
“And to answer your question: sometimes.”

* * *

  
Aziraphale didn’t think he would have told Crowley the truth if he hadn’t been so desperate to change the subject, to break the tension. It had been unwise in the extreme to allow himself to hold Crowley’s hands in that way, to look into his beautiful eyes and think he could keep his heart guarded. It was bittersweet to hear Crowley match his tone, and ask with casual frankness:  
  
“What about today?”  
  
“Yes, today. Most days, in fact.”  
  
“Can I see it?”  
  
“No, you can’t see it, what a thing to ask!” Aziraphale was smiling now, and laughing. At the silliness of Crowley’s words, yes, but also in answer to Crowley’s mischievous grin. Crowley was leaning into the space between them, playful now.  
  
“Fine, tell me how old it is.”  
  
“How old? My dear fellow, it doesn’t have birthdays!”  
  
“Don’t be rude to your own cock!” Crowley continued over Aziraphale’s snorting laughter, “Do you remember the day you first made an effort? I’d love to send a card.”  
  
“The first day I made an effort I didn’t have a—a cock,” said Aziraphale, catching his breath.  
  
“Ah, wasn’t your first choice?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Aziraphale knew he was blushing, knew he was smiling shyly, but he couldn’t quite seem to bring his features under control.  
  
“What did you try, then?”  
  
“Well, there are several possibilities, of course, but I had a-a quim.” Aziraphale decided in that moment to start practicing saying these words aloud to himself. The hesitation must sound ridiculous to Crowley.   
  
“They’re quite pretty, aren’t they?”  
  
“Do you know, I think so too.”  
  
“And when was this?”  
  
Aziraphale’s blush deepened, and Crowley, clever thing that he was, guessed the answer without being told.  
  
“It was after that day in Rome, wasn’t it?”, he crowed.  
  
Before hiding his own face in his hands, he caught a glimpse of Crowley’s face, with that wide-eyed delight Aziraphale loved so well to see. But he couldn’t bear to look, not now, not with the memories of that day flooding him.   
  
He had returned to his rooms thinking of Crowley. Had thought of him saying, “Lots of things used to feel nice.” Beneath the sorrow for his friend, there was curiosity. Crowley had listed pleasuring oneself alongside sleeping and eating, and although Aziraphale didn’t much enjoy sleep, he dearly loved to eat. He remembered how long it had taken him to give in to even trying food, and how he regretted all the years and tastes he had missed. So he made An Effort. Then he…tried it out. And he told himself, repeatedly, that he only thought of Crowley, of Crowley’s long limbs and beautiful hair and knowing smile, because Crowley had brought up the subject in the first place. This was what he told himself afterwards, actually. Because, during, while his fingers made slow, slick circles around his clit, he had had no capacity for deception. It was lust that brought Crowley to mind, and he gave himself over to it, again and again.   
  
And now he was paying for that indulgence. In his mind, as he touched himself, he had seen the demon covering him, caressing him, kissing him. Now, sitting across from Crowley on the floor, he could barely look him the eye for shame. How could he have allowed himself to dream like this? Crowley was so beautiful, and he, Aziraphale, was…well, he was kind, and thoughtful, and intelligent. But Crowley deserved confidence, and experience. He deserved someone desirable. And so Aziraphale felt his face burn even brighter. How ridiculous it was of him to want in this way! If the demon ever found out…  
  
His breathing went a little uneven as he felt Crowley’s touch on his wrists, guiding his hands away from his face. Crowley was looking at him strangely, and for a moment the only sound was the gentle crackling of the fire.  
  
“I’m glad you’ve taken your armor off, angel.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone welcome to today's episode of "Religion Can Give You Sexual Hangups"
> 
> Chapter title from "Pink in the Night" by Mitski
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-B5yr2zyY0
> 
> I cannot stop listening to this song send help


	6. The Melon Princess and the Heavenly Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week on, "two idiots trying very hard not to kiss each other": Hair washing, hot springs, and drinking.
> 
> This chapter is sort of a take on the story of the Melon Princess and the Amanojaku (heavenly demon). I mean, obviously if you're going to call something a "heavenly demon" I'm going to decide that's Crowley.
> 
> Chapter rating: T ( I guess? They get very drunk.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend listening to at least one episode of the Uncanny Japan podcast if you're unfamiliar with Japanese folklore:
> 
> https://www.uncannyjapan.com/episode-19-the-heavenly-demon-amanojaku-bedtime-story/
> 
> There is also one throw-away mention that you'll better understand if you listen to this one:
> 
> https://www.uncannyjapan.com/episode-27-ojizo-bound-in-ropes-doused-in-oil/
> 
> I'd like to give this caveat at the start: I'm in NO WAY an expert on Japanese culture or folklore! My main aim was to place Crowley and Aziraphale somewhere that wasn't Europe, essentially. I think we can all agree the canon could use a little diversity; I don't think these two would have just chilled out on the British Isles for 4,000 years when they had the whole world to explore! If any readers of this fic are experts, please do feel free to send me corrections (politely, please).

**Japan, 942 AD**  
  
Aziraphale thought he deserved some sort of medal for keeping his eyes above Crowley’s shoulders as the demon undressed. Although, to be quite frank, the bare shoulders were torment enough.  
  
Crowley looked at the mess of his robes, torn and filthy, and said, “I don’t believe these can be salvaged.”  
  
“I agree. Leave them there, I’ll get you something clean once we’ve finished.”  
  
Crowley sat on the low stool before Aziraphale.  
  
“Good luck.”  
  
Aziraphale chuckled softly as he knelt to brush out the mass of waist-length snarls before him, starting at the bottom and working out the knots as gently as he could.  
  
“You could just cut it.”  
  
“Would you prefer to cut it?”  
  
“Not really, but I hate to put you through the trouble.”  
  
“Oh, it’s no trouble!”  
  
This was not strictly truthful, as it was causing Aziraphale quite a bit of trouble to be standing so close to Crowley and at last, at last touching his lovely hair. Well. The hair itself was lovely. The state it was in, perhaps not.  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Are these…are there bird droppings in your hair?”  
  
Crowley sighed loudly.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
When it had all been detangled, Aziraphale set the brush aside and reluctantly stood. It had been a lovely feeling, kneeling behind Crowley.   
  
He tested the water in the bucket - it was warm, but not scalding.  
  
“Ready?”  
  
Crowley nodded and leaned his head back, and Aziraphale poured the water over him.   
  
And, _Lord_ , that was a sight Aziraphale wouldn’t soon forget. Crowley’s wet hair, sleeked back, the sharp planes of his face looking even sharper, contrasting with the vulnerability of his nakedness.

All that _skin_.

Crowley was wearing nothing but a scrap of linen around his waist, and Aziraphale nearly lost his concentration and doused the demon’s face.   
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat, set down the bucket, and began to lather soap into Crowley’s scalp. Crowley shuddered, so Aziraphale removed his fingers.  
  
“Too rough?”  
  
“No, ’s fine.”  
  
Still, Aziraphale gentled his hands. He methodically worked the suds through Crowley’s hair, inhaling the scent of plum blossoms and looking at the demon’s face; the sweep of his dark lashes against his cheek, the exposed curving line of his throat.   
  
“Keep your eyes closed, my dear; I’m going to rinse the soap out now.”  
  
Aziraphale saw Crowley smile at the endearment as he took up the bucket again, and felt an answering warmth in his chest as he washed out the lather.  
  
“There, I’m clean; can we soak now?”  
  
“Almost, one more thing.” Aziraphale uncorked a vial of oil and worked it into the ends of Crowley’s hair. “Well. Two more things.”  
  
Crowley’s curls were clean and soft now, and Aziraphale didn’t want to pull his hands away. He piled and folded the length atop Crowley’s head into an approximation of a topknot. The nape of Crowley’s neck was exposed now, and when Aziraphale was done securing the topknot with a bit of cloth, his fingers drifted slowly over that pale expanse of skin, down to the top of Crowley’s spine.   
  
“Angel?”  
  
The sweet, trusting note of questioning, the lovely sobriquet, the bare skin beneath his fingers; beautiful. He could see himself allowing his hands to continue their caress, following the length of Crowley’s spine down to the jutting angles of Crowley’s hip; could see himself kneeling again, following the trail of his fingers with his lips, running his tongue over every vertebrae, reaching forward to wrap his arms around Crowley’s waist. It was too much. Aziraphale closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, hard, to stifle his whimper and still his fingers. Feeling ridiculous, he removed his hand and headed for the door. 

* * *

  
  
“You go on ahead; I’ll order us some Nihonshu.”   
  
If Crowley’s blood had not been pounding in his ears, he might have heard that Aziraphale’s voice had gone a bit rough. As it was, with the back of his neck tingling and his limbs gone heavy with pleasure from the angel’s ministrations, Crowley was having difficulty concentrating. He did, however, have sufficient presence of mind to know that if he didn’t want to come up with some sort of explanation for the alarmingly hard cock off of which the scrap of linen, ostensibly provided for modesty, was now hanging, he had best get himself into the water, quickly.   
  
He slid the door open and emerged into the onsen. The sun was setting, turning the delicately curling tendrils of steam rising from the water to a hazy orange. Small green shrubs and elegant cherry blossom trees surrounded the grey-blue waters of the spring, forming a verdant sanctuary.  
  
Crowley sank down into the water and settled himself contentedly on the submerged stone bench, reveling in the heat of the water and the quiet, peaceful atmosphere.  
  
He thought of Aziraphale, of course. Aziraphale, who had gone to fetch what would no doubt be one of the most delicious drinks Crowley had ever tasted. Aziraphale, who had been so gentle in brushing out Crowley’s hair — his hair, _Hell,_ how embarrassing. Crowley would have groaned aloud with dismay had he not wished to disturb the peace of the place. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale in nearly four hundred years, and for this to be the impression he made? When Aziraphale himself had looked neat as a pin in a snowy white Agekubi?   
  
Crowley shook his head as if to shake off the memory. He was clean now, hair silky and arranged just so. Perhaps if he could be charming enough, present his most flattering angles to the angel, Aziraphale would forget about the state he had found Crowley in. Perhaps Aziraphale might…might touch him again as he had before, fingers lingering on Crowley’s neck, and oh, hell, Crowley was growing hard again just thinking about it. It couldn’t have been intentional. It just couldn’t. Aziraphale had probably been distracted, been thinking of something else and not noticed the placement of his hand.   
  
_Oh, Angel…what can I do to distract you again?_  
  
Crowley heard the slight whisper of the door sliding open, and Aziraphale’s quiet footsteps. He turned his head to see the angel placing a bottle and two ochoko at the edge of the spring. Crowley looked away as Aziraphale removed his own flimsy scrap of linen to slip, nude, into the water; he had no wish to frighten the angel with the lust burning in his eyes.   
  
He heard the wonderful sound of alcohol being poured, and turned back to look at Aziraphale with gratitude.   
  
“Drink this one straight off and I’ll refill your glass, my dear; I’ve a feeling your day’s not been easy.”  
  
Crowley did as he was told, the chilled Nihonshu filling his mouth with a delicious sweetness and a hint of tart at the end. He held out the ochoko, thanking Aziraphale as he poured a second serving.  
  
“Thank you, angel.”  
  
They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun set and sipping at their drinks. Crowley’s head was feeling pleasantly fuzzy when Aziraphale spoke.   
  
“Now. What on earth happened to you?”  
  
Crowley stiffened a bit, straightening his shoulders. He took another quaff of Nihonshu.  
  
“There was…an incident. With some birds.”  
  
“An incident?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“With birds?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Shall you elaborate?”  
  
“I shan’t.”  
  
“Oh, please?”  
  
Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, whose eyes were wide, lips parted in that endearing hopeful way of his, and groaned.  
  
“Oh, alright, I’ll tell you—“ Aziraphale was already beaming —“But! I’m not drunk enough yet. You tell me how you knew where to find me, and by the time you’re done I’ll be foxed enough to tell you how I came to be…came to be….”  
  
“Rather a mess?”  
  
“Yes, very diplomatic phrasing, Aziraphale, thank you. How I came to be rather a mess.”  
  
Aziraphale gave a contented smile.  
  
“Very well. It’s not an awfully long story, so drink quickly.”  
  
Crowley obediently gave up on using the small glass, and began to take pulls straight from the jug.  
  
“I’ve only been in Japan for the last decade. I had an assignment in Fukuoka, and after I sampled the cuisine and the hot springs, well. Of course I stayed. I arrived at this Ryokan only last night, and was enjoying dinner with the proprietor…”

* * *

  
  
“The old couple were so happy to have a child, they did not question that she had come from inside a melon,” Fujuwara explained.   
  
“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, picking up another piece of namanari with his chopsticks.  
  
“She’s a very nice girl, takes good care of her parents, and all those birds.”  
  
“Hmm.” Aziraphale was nodding and humming politely with a mouth full of rice.  
  
“I wish they’d listen to me. The Amanojaku in those woods will come after them. They’re the only ones who live there, there’s no one else for him to prey on!”  
  
Aziraphale glanced up. “Amanojaku” was a word he knew well.  
  
“What makes you think there’s an Amanojaku in those woods?”  
  
“We’ve felt him.”  
  
“ _Felt_ him?”  
  
Aziraphale tried, and failed to keep his imagination from leaping ahead several steps. Of course, he didn’t share these details with Crowley, but his thoughts were along these lines:  
  
 _It’s likely not him, Aziraphale._  
  
 _’Felt’ has different meanings, Aziraphale._  
  
 _It would be a strange turn of phrase indeed for Fujuwara to use ‘felt’ in this way to indicate that they’d put their hands on Crowley, Aziraphale._  
  
 _ **Their** hands on **my** Crowley!_  
  
 _He’s not **your** Crowley, Aziraphale!_  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat and inquired as disinterestedly as he could manage, “Felt him?”  
  
Fujuwara glanced away, looking embarrassed.  
  
“He tempts us, Ojizo-San. We all feel our unworthy desires growing stronger within ourselves, harder to fight.”  
  
“And have you seen him?”  
  
“Yes, Ojizo-San. I’ve seen him.”  
  
“What…what does he look like?”  
  
Aziraphale’s heart was beginning to beat a little fast in his chest. It was silly to hope, he supposed. He hadn’t seen Crowley in nearly four centuries.   
  
“He has red hair, Ojizo-San, a most unnatural shade. Pale skin, a sharp face. And his eyes…his eyes are a beastly yellow.”  
  
“Beastly! Now, really, that seems -“  
  
Aziraphale caught himself at Fujuwara’s surprised expression.  
  
“-Seems, unlikely.”  
  
“You could rid us of him, Ojizo-San! You are here to ease our suffering. Could you not take pity on us?”  
  
Aziraphale had a strong suspicion that the being most in need of pity right now was himself.   
  
_Don’t do this, Aziraphale._  
  
 _You’ll make a fool of yourself, Aziraphale._  
  
“Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

  
  
“You’re saying you knew to look for me based only on the word “Amanojaku” and a description of someone with red hair?”  
  
“Well…yes?”  
  
 _Oh, dear._   
  
Aziraphale supposed he should have lied, rather than simply leaving certain details out, such as the joyful leap of his heart when he heard a description that matched Crowley. He should have said that Fujuwara had described him to the letter, perhaps even given his name. But the simple fact was, Fujiwara’s description had been sparse, and it had been rather a leap to believe he had spoken of Crowley.   
  
Aziraphale felt his face go red, and wrapped his arms around his middle as if to hide it from Crowley’s view. He knew his attraction was silly, knew he wasn’t nearly beautiful enough for his desire to be requited. He resolved to do a better job of concealing it. God, if Crowley _knew_ how he felt, the fantasies in his head…Aziraphale didn’t think he could bear the humiliation.  
  
“You have alwaysss been the most clever person I know.”  
  
Crowley’s voice was warm, affectionate, and a little slurred. Aziraphale turned towards it like a flower towards sunlight. He felt the arms around his middle loosen, felt the shame in his chest dull.   
  
“Well…you know the rest, dear fellow. I followed his directions and found you...looking…as you did…” Aziraphale said in a leading tone.  
  
Crowley looked into the jug, which was empty, and smiled as Aziraphale miracled it full again.   
  
“Bless you. I’ve been in the country a bit longer…”

* * *

  
Twenty years ago, Crowley had heard a story. It was a story about an old couple who had always wanted a child, and were now past the age of hope. This old couple had fallen into poverty, and begun to collect birds to fill their home with song and companionship. Then, one day, the old woman had found a melon floating in the river. She had brought it home, and it cracked open to reveal a baby. 

  
What a lovely story, the locals said. This dear old couple, so longing of a child, had been granted one by the gods, and named her Uriko-hime: Melon Princess. 

  
Crowley thought it was all bullshit. A lonely old couple being granted their deepest wish? Something they had longed for so badly that they had started to collect birds to approximate it? 

  
Crowley thought there must be another demon about, making trouble. And not officially sanctioned trouble, either. He would have heard about it if there was an assignment in the area. 

  
So he went to investigate. Purely out of loyalty to Hell’s bureaucracy, you understand. Not to ensure the safety of an elderly couple caring for an infant.   
He heard the birds before he could see the hut. When he knocked on the door, a small girl answered. The smell of feathers and bird shit engulfed him as he stood on the threshold.  
  
“Hullo,” Crowley said over the trilling of the birds. “You must be Uriko-hime.”  
  
“Yes. Are you here to speak to my parents?”  
  
“Yes, please, I just have a question for them.”  
  
The girl, who looked no older than six or seven, sighed heavily.  
  
“No, I was not found inside a melon.”  
  
This was not the question Crowley had intended to ask, but the girl continued, with a rather pitying look on her face.  
  
“Now, you may not know this, but people do not hatch from melons. We do not even hatch from eggs.” She lowered her voice to a whisper that was so highly patronizing, Crowley found himself thoroughly impressed. “Perhaps you should find a grown up to explain it to you.”  
  
“Well, thank you for clearing that up, but I was actually wondering if they had seen any…any strange people around. Anyone with, oh, I don’t know, _slime_ on their face, or a giant fly on their head?”  
  
“Or red hair and yellow eyes?”  
  
“Besides me.”  
  
“Oh. Well. Then, no.”  
  
“Thank you, that’ll be all.”  
  
Crowley turned and walked away, thinking to take a thorough look around the area. He didn’t sense any demons nearby, but it had been a while. Maybe he was out of practice. Just because the girl hadn’t seen anyone, that didn’t mean they weren’t plotting. He should check, just to be sure no one was lurking.   
  
He heard the girl’s tiny feet padding after him on the ground.   
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Why are you following me?”  
  
“Asked you first.”  
  
“I’m…going home.”  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You’re going to look around. I can tell.”  
  
“How?”  
  
The girl shrugged her small shoulders.   
  
“Dunno. Can just tell.”  
  
“Are you sure you’re an ordinary human?”  
  
Uriko-hime just gave a small smile and shrugged again.  
  
“You should stay for dinner.” She gave Crowley an appraising look and seemed to find him wanting. “You’re very skinny.”   
  
Crowley didn’t care much for food, but he accepted the invitation. It would give him a chance to speak to Uriko-hime’s parents. As he turned around, the girl did something that made Crowley narrow his eyes in suspicion at the warm feeling that bloomed in his chest; she hooked her small hand into his to lead him to her home.   
  
Uriko-hime’s parents, Hidetada and Kasumi, were warm and welcoming. They seemed to think nothing of offering hospitality to a stranger.  
  
“We often have visitors; they want to see our birds, and our little gift from the gods, our little Uriko-hime.”  
  
Uriko-hime grimaced a little, but did not contradict her parents.   
  
It was the first of many dinners Crowley would have with the family over the years. Even after it became clear that no demons were involved in the strange tale of the Melon Princess’s birth or the elderly couple’s strange fixation with birds, he stayed. He stayed because they made him feel so welcome, and so…so normal. They had excellent tea, and after an hour or so in the house one always got used to the smell.   
  
Sometimes, he would help Uriko-hime clean out the cages and sweep the feathers from the floor. Hidetada brought a new bird home most days, and Kasumi kept the cages in good repair. The cages were never overcrowded; they’d been collecting birds so long that a bird died most days as well.   
  
When Uriko-hime was young, Hidetada would take the bodies of the dead birds and toss them into a pit he had dug for the purpose. It seemed odd, that more care was not taken when the birds seemed so precious in life. Odd, too, that they continued to capture birds now that they had a daughter. But Crowley kept his silence, even when Uriko-hime grew old enough to insist she take on the task from her father. Unlike Hidetada, she buried them with care. Each tiny body, she laid to rest gently and with a small prayer. Crowley started to visit more often after that. He was concerned for Uriko-hime; if she mourned for every bird, how soon would she break? He finally spoke when he saw a tear roll down her cheek for the first time.  
  
“I’m sorry, Melon Princess. But all things die.”  
  
She gave him a sharp look. She had been a perceptive child, and she had grown into a perceptive young woman.   
  
“That’s not why I grieve for them.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No. They don’t belong in cages, Crowley.”  
  
“It’s true. They don’t.”  
  
She snorted, and looked over her shoulder at the house. They could both hear the confusion of birdsong, a cacophony that seemed to mock them.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to say that they don’t know the difference? That they’re just animals?”  
  
“Would that help?”  
  
“My parents think it does.”  
  
“I think it helps to put a name to our grief. To acknowledge its source.”  
  
Huriko-hime looked at him sadly.  
  
“They don’t belong in cages, Crowley.”  
  
That had been nearly two years ago. Crowley wasn’t sure why he was saying so much. It could be the drink, of course. But Aziraphale was looking at him intently, as though he knew how the story ended. Which, in a way, he did. It had been foolish to attach himself to a mortal in this way. To allow himself a friend who would die, die like the birds she buried and leave him with only memories of her quick smile, her quicker mind.  
  
That evening, Crowley arrived later than usual. He had missed dinner, but could join the family for tea. He slid open the door, expecting to see he Kasumi pouring at the low table.   
  
What he found was chaos. Huriko-hime was standing at an open window, flapping her arms in frustration. The birds were out of their cages, flying happily around the house but refusing to leave. Crowley ran through the flurry with his arms over his head.   
  
“What happened?” he yelled over the noise. “Are you all right?” He added at the sight of Huriko-hime’s face. Tears were streaming down her face, and he could smell the alcohol heavy on her breath.   
  
“They won’t leave, Crowley!”, she cried. “They won’t leave!” She slid to the floor with a sob, and Crowley followed. He knelt beside her and held her as she cried, while the birds swooping around them, sometimes landing on their heads or shoulders.   
  
He cooed calming noises, stroked her hair and kept the birds away as best he could until her breathing evened out.   
  
“What is it, Melon Princess?”  
  
“Don’t call me that.”  
  
“It’s your name.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“What should I call you?”  
  
“I don’t know. But I didn’t come from inside a melon. It’s stupid.”  
  
“Very well. Then where did you come from?”  
  
Huriko-hime gave him the same pitying look she had given him when he had first knocked on her door twenty years ago.  
  
“I think…I think Kasumi must be my mother’s mother’s sister. They never had children of their own, so they aren’t my grandparents, and the age isn’t right for one of them to be my aunt and uncle.”  
  
“Why have you never believed you were found from inside a melon? Why have you never believed that you were a miracle?”  
  
“I don’t believe in miracles, Crowley,” she said sadly.  
  
“You don’t think it’s a bit of a miracle that they were given the child they wanted so badly? However she came to them?”  
  
“That’s reductive.”  
  
“Perhaps. I still choose to believe you are a miracle." And she was. She made Crowley feel...feel like a father. "Will you tell me what happened, musume? Where are your parents?”  
  
Another small sob.  
  
“They’re gone for the night. They’re arranging my marriage.”  
  
Crowley’s arms tightened.  
  
“You don’t wish to be married?”  
  
“No. I…I don’t want a husband.”  
  
“What about a wife?”  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
“Musume, you must know your parents wouldn’t force you. They love you.”  
  
“They love the _birds_ , too, Crowley.” Her voice was desperate and slurred, but he couldn’t seem to find an argument. She was right. “You should go. I should get them back in their cages before night falls.”  
  
Crowley stayed to help; what else could he do? But as dusk was falling, it became clear that the birds would neither leave the house through any of the various open doors and windows, nor return to their perches. Huriko-hime and Crowley both bore the marks of tiny talons and beaks, were thoroughly soiled, had accomplished nothing, and one of them was experiencing her very first hangover and loudly swearing she would drink nothing but tea until the day she died.  
  
Huriko-hime allowed Crowley to brew her a pot before shooing him out of the house. And, on his way back to his own nearby home, feeling bedraggled and discouraged, he had run into Aziraphale. Aziraphale, looking like something out of a dream of course, and it had taken all of Crowley’s admittedly insubstantial self-control not to fall into the angel’s arms.   
  
Aziraphale could fix this. But first, he had set about fixing up Crowley. “Come along, dear boy, I’ve a private onsen,” he had said. What had Crowley done to deserve a friend like this?

* * *

  
  
“So they call you Ojizo-san?”  
  
“Yes. They can spot these things, it seems. Had you pegged, at least. And before you ask, no, no one has tied me up or doused me in oil.”  
  
Crowley was not able to process these images in a productive way while drunk and naked in the dark with the angel he was obsessed with, so he merely tucked them away in his mind for later enjoyment.  
  
“You will help her, won’t you, Angel?”  
  
“As though you need to ask!”  
  
Crowley laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and sighed.  
  
“Now. Refill this jug, pleassse, and we’ll strategize."

* * *

  
  
The next morning, Aziraphale awoke with a pounding head, a churning stomach, and a mouth dry as sand.  
  
He also had an arm wrapped around a sleepy demon. Crowley was laying on his side, facing away from Aziraphale, his bottom tucked into the angel’s hips and his hands gripping Aziraphale’s arm. Aziraphale swallowed, hard, his hangover seeming much less urgent as his body made other, far more compelling things apparent to him. Like the way Crowley had wrapped himself around his arm, as though the demon wanted him near. Like the way Crowley’s hair had come out of its topknot and was sprawled in lovely ringlets across the pillow, and tickling his nose. The cool pressure of Crowley’s body curled into his, oh, sweet heaven, the feel of Crowley in his arms! It felt so, so very _right_. Then Crowley spoke, and Aziraphale froze.  
  
“Angel.”  
  
He cleared his throat.   
  
“Yes, Crowley?”  
  
“How much alcohol did we drink last night?”  
  
Aziraphale laughed, wincing even as he did at the pain that lanced through his head. He fell back, covering his eyes with his hands and groaning.  
  
“Well…I’m not sure but it feels as though perhaps we drank all of it.”  
  
“All that was in the bottle?”  
  
“No…just…all of it.”   
  
Crowley’s voice grew tentative; the demon was still facing away from him.   
  
“And did you find a way to help her?”  
  
Aziraphale sat up, slowly, pieces of the night and the plan he had made returning to him.  
  
“D’you know, I believe I did!” he said brightly.   
  
Crowley sat up, and turned to look at Aziraphale, squinting in the light. His red curls were tumbled about his face, and he smiled, and Aziraphale’s heart cracked open.   
  
Crowley leaned forward, kissed Aziraphale briefly on the forehead, and bounded out of bed.   
  
It was an easy fix, in the end. The Melon Princess’s parents had lived in poverty for so long, and had wanted to find a husband for Huriko-hime only to be certain she could have better fortune after their deaths.   
  
All Aziraphale had to do was find a way to convince them that their daughter could look after herself.   
  
And so; a story. 

A story about a scheming Amonojaku, a story about a clever girl who bested him and tamed a flock of birds. It was a good story, and the evidence was there when Hidetada and Kasumi returned. The birds perched like quiet sentinels, and Huriko-hime sat at a loom weaving strong, red silk. Silk the burnished color of Crowley’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for the lateness; It's been a rough week. Basically I got fired. So the bad news is I'm unemployed but the good news is, I got nothin but time. Time to think about these two idiots.


	7. Forget Your Hopes; They Were What Brought You Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley, my dear. Do you…do you remember Heaven? Do you miss it?”
> 
> Chapter rating: G

**Italy, 1314 A.D.**  
  
“Have you read the most recent draft?”  
  
“I have. Awful lot of popes.”  
  
“D’you know, I mentioned that as well. And I told him no one would take it seriously if he’s simply putting all the people he doesn’t like in Hell.”   
  
Crowley, having helped Aziraphale consume several bottles of red, actually pouted.  
  
“’Spose he hasn’t thought to put some people he doesn’t like in Heaven.”  
  
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and Crowley tried not to sigh. The angel looked so adorable when he was trying to decide whether or not he’d been insulted.  
  
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”, he slurred, still squinting.  
  
“Well. At least _Inferno_ is readable. _Paradiso_ is so dense, it's…I mean, there’s maths, ‘Ziraphale. Maths!”  
  
Aziraphale gasped, offended.  
  
“There’s not!”  
  
“There is! Well, maybe not maths _precisely_ , but some complex astronomy. Have you read it?”  
  
Aziraphale looked away and mumbled a bit, something that sounded suspiciously like a petulant, “started it.”  
  
“See, you _started_ it. Have a feeling everyone’s going to _start_ it.”  
  
“What are you getting at, Crowley.”  
  
 _Could tell you what I **want** to be getting at, Angel, want to be getting at those wine-stained lips_—  
  
 _Focus, Crowley._   
  
_What were you getting at?_  
  
“…What _was_ I getting at?”  
  
Aziraphale sighed heavily, set down his goblet, and gave Crowley a very stern look.  
  
“You were saying…” he stopped. Squinted. “Ah yes! You were saying, he should have tried putting people he didn’t like in Heaven.”  
  
Crowley snapped his fingers, grinning, and pointed at Aziraphale.  
  
“Lovely to have you around when one is drunk and the mind wanders, thank you Angel, yes, I was saying: he should have tried putting people he didn’t like in Heaven, because no one will ever finish reading the entirety of the third canticle save translators and scholars and the highly pretentious, ’s what I’m saying. No one would ever read about ‘em. Put ‘em in _Inferno_ though, mm, different story, lots of people will make it all the way through that one. Lots of blood n’ guts n' sex, you know. Eternal fame for Dante’s enemies.”  
  
Now Aziraphale was pouting.   
  
“Wish _Paradiso_ wasn’t so boring.”  
  
“Now, Angel!” Crowley scooted closer to Aziraphale on the settee and put a finger under the angel’s chin to lift his gaze until their eyes met.  
  
“’S all right Heaven’s a bit dull. You’re not in Heaven, are you? You’re on earth, where they make lovely booze and pastries!”   
  
Crowley smiled down into Aziraphale’s face, and his heart nearly stopped. Sitting so close, he could see the candlelight reflecting in the pale blue of Aziraphale’s eyes and the bits of gold that were woven through his silver curls. Could smell the wine on his breath, feel the warmth of his skin. There was a drunken softness to the angel’s expression, and Crowley wanted to taste the angel’s mouth so badly that his own watered.  
  
He cleared his throat and moved away with what he hoped was nonchalance, and grabbed the wine jug to refill Aziraphale’s glass. The angel was smiling now.   
  
“I suppose we shouldn’t be too harsh. He’s just trying to make sense of things. They all are.”  
  
“Mm. Natural I suppose. And a comforting thought, that one would have a guide through it all. Someone to tell them what to do.”  
  
Aziraphale was studying him over the rim of his glass now, mind moving behind his eyes, and Crowley feared the angel knew what he’d been thinking a moment ago when they’d touched. Feared, and hoped; perhaps Aziraphale would allow a kiss? Even just out of curiosity? Crowley would take any terms he could get. But, no;  
  
“Did he get anything right?”, Aziraphale asked instead.  
  
It took Crowley a moment to catch up.  
  
“Are you asking me what Hell is like, Aziraphale?”  
  
“Yes, I suppose I am.”  
  
“It’s certainly not as organized as he imagines. Hell may be a bureaucracy, but it’s in no way an efficiently run bureaucracy.”  
  
Aziraphale gave a drunken giggle. “I suppose that makes a certain amount of sense.”  
  
“And the humans aren’t separated by whatever sin they enjoyed most in life. Sort of all lumped in together.”  
  
Aziraphale studied him again, and Crowley knew what question was coming next, and he took a loud breath, frowning into his wine even as Aziraphale asked it.

* * *

  
  
“Crowley, my dear. Do you…do you remember Heaven? Do you miss it?”  
  
Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t have dared to ask were it not for the feeling of intimacy that had grown between them over the course of the evening. They’d done this before, talking and drinking late into the night, but tonight felt different, somehow. There was something about the sound of rain on the roof and the flickering of the candles. And Crowley had touched him, if only briefly. Had looked down into Aziraphale’s face with affection shining in his eyes, and Aziraphale’s heart had leapt in his chest. Aziraphale wanted more. Wanted more closeness, more sharing. He knew he could never hope to have Crowley as a lover, but perhaps he could claim this part of Crowley. Perhaps he could have Crowley’s trust.  
  
“I do remember it, yes.” Crowley’s voice was soft. “There are things I can forget if I try, but I can never quite seem to forget Heaven.”   
  
“You’ve tried, then?”  
  
Crowley let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh, but with a small smile and an expression that was almost fondly exasperated.  
  
“I’ve been trying for five thousand years to forget.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Crowley leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his wine held loosely, almost dangling in front of him. He stared at the ground, and was quiet for so long Aziraphale wondered if he’d chosen not to answer. When he did, it was in such a small, small voice.  
  
“Think about last century, when we were staying in Paris, used to visit Notre-Dame every so often to listen to the sacred songs. Why did you like the music so much?”  
  
“I’m not sure I’ve every really asked myself why. Same reason I like cannoli, I suppose. It’s pleasant. It brings joy.”  
  
“You’re comparing music to cannoli?”  
  
“Well. Yes. One doesn’t _need_ music any more than one _needs_ cannoli. But it still feeds you, in a way.”  
  
“Alright, then. Think about that music, Aziraphale. Really. Imagine it. Summon up that feeling inside you that happens when you hear music.”  
  
Aziraphale closed his eyes and did as he was bid. He brought to mind a particularly lovely vespers service he had attended with Crowley. It had been in the early summer, so the sun hadn’t yet set, but the air was evening-cool as they walked the streets of Paris together.   
  
Crowley had been wearing black hose, black tunic, black cloak with a silver fastener. That silver had glinted in the setting sun, as had Crowley’s hair. He’d been wearing it short then, though not quite as short as it had been in Rome. The curls fell to his chin, looking long enough to run one’s fingers through.   
  
Aziraphale knew he was smiling as he tried to remember what the music had been. Just as he recalled the tune, Crowley began to sing.  
  
 _Deum verum,_  
 _Unum in Trinitate,_  
 _Trinitatem in Unitate,_  
 _Venite, adoremus_  
  
It made Aziraphale smile to know that they had both cast their memories back to that same summer night. Crowley’s voice was low, and sweet, and solemn. Aziraphale kept his eyes closed and let the sound fill him, quiet as it was. Remembering how they had arrived a touch late, how they had squeezed themselves onto a bench in the back. They’d been sitting so closely together. Of course, they always sat close together. They had to, or the consecrated ground would burn Crowley’s feet. Still, those nights had been precious to Aziraphale. It was rare, and wonderful, to be touching Crowley. To be near enough to inhale his clean, warm scent; cinnamon and pine.  
  
 _Venite, exsultemus Domino,_  
 _Salutari nostro:_  
 _Praeoccupemus facies jus_  
 _In confesione…._  
  
Crowley trailed off, and Aziraphale opened his eyes, smiling.  
  
“Do you know, my dear, I don’t hear you sing nearly often enough. That was lovely.”  
  
Crowley was staring back, the corners of his mouth turned down in sadness, and Aziraphale felt his smile falter.  
  
“That night at Notre Dame, the one you’re thinking of? Imagine that partway through that first beautiful chant, you suddenly found you couldn’t hear it anymore.”  
  
“What do you mean? I can’t hear anything?”  
  
“No, not at all. It’s only the music that you can’t hear. You can still hear the people rustling in their seats, the breaths the singers take, the beating of your own heart. And everyone around you looks transported by the music, just as you were a moment ago. Imagine knowing, in that moment, that you will never, ever hear those songs again. “  
  
A note of desperation was rising in Crowley’s voice.  
  
“You wanted to know why I try to forget? I remember, Aziraphale. I’m cold. And I remember what warmth feels like.”  
  
Aziraphale felt tears rolling down his cheeks, felt a sharpness in his chest that he couldn’t name.  
  
“I’m _cold_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley choked.  
  
Aziraphale later thought that, if he had been more sober, perhaps he would have responded differently. Perhaps he would have taken a moment to think about what sort of comfort would be accepted, and not just what sort of comfort could be given.   
  
But he wasn’t sober, and he had thought only that he couldn’t bear to see Crowley cold. Not when he had warmth to give.   
  
So he reached out, and took the cup from Crowley’s hands, and set it down on the floor. He inched closer to Crowley on the settee. Turning slightly, he put both his arms around the demon, and pulled him into his arms. Crowley kept his arms held tight to his own body, but rested his head against Aziraphale’s chest all the same, the top of his head under the angel’s chin.  
  
For several moments, as Crowley allowed himself to be held, Aziraphale felt a sense of rightness, a sense of peace. He manifested his wings, wrapped those around the two of them as well, and tightened the circle of his arms. He savored the edges of Crowley’s shoulders and elbows. Took in a deep breath, let Crowley’s scent overwhelm him. Cinnamon and pine. He closed his eyes, and brought one hand to run through Crowley’s curls. He felt that Crowley was sobbing silently, and pressed his lips to the top of Crowley’s head as he rocked gently back and forth.  
  
He kept his lips there as he reached out again, not with arms nor wings, but with divinity. That soft warm glow the Aziraphale carried with him, he tried then to share with Crowley, as he had long ago shared it with Christ.   
  
But the demon gave a loud cry, as though in pain, and wrenched himself out of Aziraphale’s arms, stumbling across the room.   
  
“Crowley? What is it, are you alright-“  
  
Aziraphale had stood and began to walk towards his friend, but stopped at the expression on Crowley’s face. There was a fury there that Aziraphale had never seen. Crowley closed the distance between them, putting on his dark glasses as he walked so Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes though they were face to face.  
  
“I made a choice, _Angel_.” For the first time there was venom in the endearment, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the small cry that escaped him, as though something precious had been lost; couldn’t help the tears that fell. “I knew what I was doing, I knew what I was giving up. _Don’t._ ”  
  
“Crowley, you’re right, I’m so sorry, darling, I didn’t think, please -“  
  
But Crowley had already slammed the door.

* * *

  
  
Crowley was still reeling when he reached his rooms. He’d been nearly brought to his knees when he felt Aziraphale reaching out to him with Heaven’s warmth. His arms and wings had been overwhelming enough, but that? That had been unbearable. He’d been learning to live without Heaven’s warmth for five millennia, and damn if at the first taste of it he hadn’t been ready to beg again.  
  
He had begged, at first, after the fall. Begged to be forgiven, to be taken back up, not because he agreed with Heaven any more than he had when he fell, but because that silence after sound was a sharp, soul-deep torture. Because he had been cold, and confused. Call it cowardly, but in those first years Crowley had wanted more than anything to be home. Hell hadn’t been home, much as he belonged there now. It still wasn’t.  
  
If pressed, he would have called Earth his home. But there was still something missing. He had been an angel, after all, had been formed for the halls of Heaven, and his body and his soul were never quite comfortable.   
  
Until, _God_ , until the angel had been holding him. So tightly, almost possessively, and Crowley had felt a terrible, dangerous hope rising up in him. He could still feel Aziraphale’s arms around him, closed his eyes at the memory of Aziraphale’s lips on the crown of his head.   
  
_No. No. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t want you._  
  
 _But he called me darling-_  
  
 _It means nothing. The Angel will no more love you than God will forgive you._  
  
Crowley let that truth sink into his mind, his heart, his bones. He wept again, keening; curled in upon himself, with no one to hold him.  
  
 _You reach too high, Crowley. Far too high._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the third canto of the Clive James translation of Dante's Inferno. More common translations are variations on, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here". I like the message of this line in the James translation better. That said I'm not a Dante scholar, just someone who took one (1) undergraduate course on the Divine Comedy eight years ago.


	8. I'll Pay Thy Toll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you speak with God?”
> 
> The girl did not even glance his way until he spoke again, with venom in his voice.
> 
> “Do you think yourself above the question?”
> 
> She turned her head slowly, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes.
> 
> “Does it matter?”
> 
> “Yes. It matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: M

**France, February 1429 A.D.**  
  
Aziraphale had been living in a nightmare for 92 years when a peasant girl walked into the court of Charles VII at Chinon, saying she had heard the voice of God. And oh, he was angry.   
  
Anger wasn’t an emotion he was terribly familiar with, and it still sickened him each time he felt it. Like desire, anger was followed quickly by shame; but how could he not be angry? He’d been there at the start; the Battle of l’Ecluse. He had watched twenty thousand men die. _Twenty thousand_. He thought back to the Flood. Longed for the days when he thought the loss of four hundred souls was the worst devastation he would ever see.   
  
There was a point, he knew, where the human mind could not comprehend the meaning of a number. The generals and dukes and kings heard the number, of course. Heard twenty thousand men had died. They understood it in terms of units, of regiments, of strategy. But they couldn’t grasp the full horror of it.   
  
Aziraphale could.  
  
He could _feel_ the heartbreak each death brought. And the Almighty hadn’t spoken to him, even through the Metatron or Raphael or Gabriel, since he’d been on assignment in Italy over a century ago.   
  
He’d seen a rainbow three days ago and very nearly vomited.  
  
People were _dying_. They were dying violently, dying slowly, dying in churned up mud and shit and blood, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do.  
  
The French and English were both certain the war was divine, that God had decreed it. Aziraphale wasn’t certain of anything. He had only his own conscience to guide him, and…and he didn’t trust it.  
  
He’d long since given up on trying to broker a peace; peace on any terms, with any regent on either or both thrones. The humans wouldn’t listen to him, and it seemed that the best he could do, as he had done at the Flood and at Golgotha, was stand witness to the suffering. The best he could do was to feel each death and the grief it brought until they’d killed enough people to be satisfied with the bloodshed.  
  
It was the best he could do, and it made him sick.  
  
If he waited long enough, he knew, the people would grow tired of the war. They always did. The fire in their chests and conviction of their cause would eventually dim. Privation and death would wear on them until, Heaven help them, they grew _bored_.  
  
But now, this girl with shining eyes had brought them some new entertainment. New fire, new conviction, to stir it all up again, and Aziraphale would have covered her mouth and dragged her from the room if he could find the faith to believe it would stop all this suffering.   
  
No. He forced himself to confront the truth; he had wanted to kill her. The violence that stirred in him at the vision she brought, a vision of another hundred years of war, had nothing of the celestial in it. It was not a righteous anger, it was earthy and visceral. He had wanted to kill her because the fire she lit within the hearts of the French would fuel Aziraphale’s torture. Would fuel the war, would prolong his suffering.   
  
He should leave. He should leave before the bitterness inside him hardened and broke him, before he said something needlessly vicious to an adolescent peasant girl. Ridiculous in itself, for an angel to be cruel to a human.  
  
But he stayed. And he sought her out, of course, and that, too, was ridiculous; he was an angel, approaching a mortal, seeking news of the celestial. He hadn’t gone so long without guidance in his entire existence, and he was desperate and filled with a darkness that was making him a stranger to himself.   
  
“Do you speak with God?”  
  
The girl did not even glance his way until he spoke again, with venom in his voice.  
  
“Do you think yourself above the question?”  
  
She turned her head slowly, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes.  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“Yes. It matters.”  
  
“Why do you think I’ll give you a different answer than the answer I gave the King of France? Do you think yourself above him?”  
  
“I know myself above him.”  
  
“Treason.”  
  
Aziraphale felt his exhaustion weigh on him heavily at those words, and began muttering to himself rather than answering the girl.  
  
“Treason…perhaps. Have I committed a betrayal? Is that why my Sovereign’s face has turned from me?”  
  
He looked up into Jeanne’s face and felt the futility of asking her for answers when she couldn’t even comprehend the questions. Luminous gaze and mysticism notwithstanding, she was still a mortal child. She stood before him, said something that surprised Aziraphale, after all his years among humanity.  
  
“I do not understand what you are saying, precisely. I do not have answers for you, but there is One who does.” She grasped Aziraphale’s hands, sliding her rosary into his palm. “Will you pray with me?”  
  
Aziraphale sighed heavily, hope fading quickly.   
  
“And why would this prayer be different, child? Why should the Almighty answer this plea, when decades of supplication have been ignored?”  
  
Jeanne shrugged her small shoulders. “We cannot know. God’s plans are ineffable.”  
  
Aziraphale snorted, and looked at her incredulously.   
  
“What did you just say?”  
  
A bit of frost came into her voice as Aziraphale began to giggle. “Nothing so amusing as that, I’m sure.”  
  
“Did you really just say ‘ineffable’?”   
  
“Yes.” Aziraphale had never laughed like this before, bitter and joyless, yet with shoulder-shaking intensity. “Are you well, Monsieur?”  
  
“My dear child, I can’t possibly explain, you see, I have a friend who—“ and he broke off with a hiccup, containing the laughter that threatened to turn to a sob in his throat. “Rather, I _had_ a friend—he would have found this all terribly amusing.”  
  
“I’m sorry. When did he pass?”  
  
“He isn’t dead. We had a, a falling out, I suppose you’d call it.”   
  
Jeanne gestured for him to sit at her table, and poured him what was to be the first of many glasses they would share together.  
  
“Why don’t you tell me about him?”

* * *

  
**France, October 1429 A.D.**  
  
Jeanne watched Aziraphale take a second slice of apple tart with distaste.   
  
“Don’t look at me like that. I told you I’d share.”  
  
“Indulgences of the flesh are sinful.”  
  
“My dear, I wish you wouldn’t sound so very Catholic.” She didn’t laugh. Then, she rarely did. Aziraphale smiled softly.   
  
“Perhaps you just haven’t found the indulgence that’s right for you.”  
  
Jeanne’s cheeks flushed red, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh.   
  
“Don’t be so shocked, I meant you just haven’t had a dessert you like!”   
  
Sometimes Aziraphale forgot how young she was. Still just an adolescent, easily embarrassed by innuendo. Certain in her role as savior of the French, but not certain in her own body. He shouldn’t tease; he knew how that felt. He stood from the table and offered her his hand. She took it with great dignity, cheeks still flushed.   
  
Aziraphale led Jeanne out to the orchards, to where the apples were ripening on the trees.   
  
“Now, what is it that you find insufficiently tempting about apple tarts?”  
  
“I never said I didn’t find them tempting. I can simply control myself, Monsieur Fell.”   
  
“Around apple tart, yes. Answer the question, my dear. It’s just us! I won’t tell the troops that you’re human.” He was teasing again, but the corners of Jeanne’s lips were curved up slightly. Still just a child, with a child’s exuberance, and no relief for it short of battle and religious ecstasy.  
  
“I…it’s too sweet. And too soft.”  
  
“Well, if sweet and soft are not to your tastes I wonder how you can stand my company.”   
  
She giggled, quietly, and the sound made Aziraphale happy.   
  
“So. Tart and crunchy, then?” He reached up to a heavily laden branch, twisted an apple free from its stem, and handed it to Jeanne. She hesitated to take it from him in a way that told Aziraphale how very badly she wanted it. “Go on, child. Would I ever lead you astray?”  
  
As Jeanne reached out to take the apple from his hands, he was struck with a memory from the beginning. A memory of a snake, whispering to a mortal girl.  
  
_Go on, child. Would I ever lead you astray?_  
  
But no, that couldn’t be right. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the temptation of Eve. He had no way of knowing what Crowley had said, exactly. And he’d never asked.   
  
Would he ever have the chance?   
  
He watched Jeanne chew happily, wind ruffling her short hair.  
  
“Do you truly believe eating this apple is a sin, child?”  
  
Jeanne frowned. “Hard to say yes, Monsieur, while I’m still chewing.”  
  
“Will you feel guilty when you’re done eating it?”  
  
“Most likely.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I’m enjoying it.”  
  
She took a deliberate, loud bite of the apple, and Aziraphale felt absurdly proud of her.  
  
“Why do you believe anything enjoyable is a sin?”  
  
“Satan is the Prince of this World, Monsieur Fell. His temptations are everywhere to distract us.”  
  
“So Satan created apple tarts to distract me from praying? To distract me from praying prayers that are never answered?”  
  
Jeanne gave a small smile.   
  
“Perhaps not so directly, Monsieur. Perhaps the real question is, if the Lord your God did answer your prayers, and the answer was, ‘to follow me, you must forsake apple tarts’, could you do it?”  
  
Aziraphale placed his hand over his heart as though stricken. “Surely the Almighty would not require such a sacrifice!”  
  
Jeanne only looked at him over the core of the apple. He sighed. He’d never managed to make her laugh twice in one day before.   
  
“Yes, my dear, I could give up apple tarts. And you could give up fresh apples?”  
  
“Easily. Partly because I so rarely indulge,” she said pointedly. “You’ve still felt no divine presence, I take it? You still ask yourself what it is that keeps Him from you?”  
  
The wind felt colder, suddenly. The light bleached from the autumn afternoon.   
  
“All you must do is ask yourself, what is it that I could not give up, if the Lord asked if of me? And there you shall have your answer, and there you shall know what it is you must relinquish.”   
  
Aziraphale closed his eyes and saw red ringlets, a mischievous grin, a lithe frame. Cool fingers beneath his chin.

_You're not in Heaven, are you? You're on Earth, where they make lovely booze and pastries!_

Jeanne’s face softened seeing his stricken look. “Now, Monsieur Fell, it can’t be as bad as all that. For what can compare to the joy that is in the Lord? Nothing this Earth can provide, for all its temptations.”  
  
Aziraphale snorted. He opened his mouth to explain that his temptation was not of this Earth, but stopped himself. Thought of the first time he had tasted earthly pleasures, when he had finally allowed himself to pierce the flesh of an apricot with his teeth.  
The tart and sweet of it, the juice running down his chin and over his knuckles, the coolness in his mouth and throat. Thought of sharing oysters with Crowley in Rome, the heat of the baths, the glide of oil-slick hands over his skin. Of Crowley, weeping when he parted from Huriko-hime for the last time. 

  
What was more of this earth than Crowley? Crowley was all of it, to Aziraphale; the sweetness and the bite of an apricot, the joy and the sorrow of humanity.   
Aziraphale knew he could never give Crowley up, and felt the pit of shame in his stomach open in familiar welcome, ready to swallow him.   
  
_How ridiculous of you, soft and simple as you are, to pine for one such as he!_  
  
_And this is what you would leave your God for? Forsake The Great I Am, for a demon who wouldn’t have you anyway?_  
  
“Perhaps you’re right,” Aziraphale said shakily. “Perhaps you’re right, after all, Jeanne.”  
  
  
Aziraphale did his best, after that day in the orchard, to keep himself from thinking of Crowley. Began to deny himself pastries as well, as though the willpower to resist the two were somehow connected. The only things he couldn’t control were his dreams, and in his dreams he saw Crowley. The shame their memory brought when day came became harder to bear, because the dreams became more raw the longer he went without pleasuring himself. One night he dreamed that Crowley had tied his wrists behind his back and brought him to release with his mouth, relentlessly licking his clit, so many times over it became painful. In the dream, he had sobbed in pain and ecstasy until Crowley untied him, soothed him, held him. He awoke so hard it hurt, with tears still wet on his cheeks. What stayed with him that day was that, in the dream, he had felt no shame. That was the last night he allowed himself to sleep.   
  
**France, May 1431 A.D.**  
  
Jeanne was dying of smoke inhalation. As she choked, Aziraphale remembered her rare, quiet laughter, and wondered at the Almighty. Noah had been spared, but Christ had been killed. Among God’s chosen, how did They choose which died of old age, and which died bloody? Noah hadn’t been so wonderful, Aziraphale thought. But Jeanne, brave and bold and pious, this was the end she received? Did God think it some sort of a gift to be made a martyr? What did Jeanne think of God’s gift? Did They bother to ask her? Aziraphale suspected They hadn’t. They hadn’t listened to Their own son when he’d begged to be spared.   
  
Aziraphale was hungry and lonely. He stopped trying, just then, to understand the will of of the Almighty; he was too goddamned tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "The Roman Road" by Stevie Smith.


	9. I'll Be Your Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset  
> The light on your door to show that you are home. 
> 
> When you think the night has seen your mind,   
> That inside you're twisted and unkind,   
> Let me stand to show that you are blind
> 
> Please put down your hands,   
> Cause I see you.
> 
> Chapter rating: M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "I'll Be Your Mirror," by The Velvet Underground. You know. Bee-bop. 
> 
> Also, please be aware that Aziraphale is dealing with some self-hate in this chapter if that's something you're sensitive to.

**Spain, 1576 A.D.**

When Crowley received the commendation, he did an excellent job of hiding his confusion. 

  
He’d spent the past century drinking wine, seducing his way through the Spanish countryside, and generally avoiding anyone who tried to start a philosophical conversation. But on receiving congratulations from the auspices of Hell on the success of the Inquisition, he felt guilt gnaw in his chest. He should really be paying closer attention. Bloodshed and terror? Perhaps the humans had come up with this on their own, but to Crowley it sounded like a Heavenly endeavor. 

  
And so he traveled to the site of the most recent tribunal. Why, precisely? Well…certainly not to see if Aziraphale had anything to do with this business. It didn’t seem quite his style, but one never knew what sort of assignments the angel would carry out given Heaven’s instruction.

  
He sensed Aziraphale’s presence soon after arriving in Santiago de Compostela. But there was something odd about the feeling; something dimmed. He followed it like a flickering beacon through the city despite the lateness of the hour, his unease growing, until it led him to an inn in a wealthy neighborhood. He didn’t stop to make inquiries, only walked up the stairs to the set of rooms where he knew Aziraphale would be, and walked in without knocking. 

And there he was. The first time they’d been in the same room for two and a half centuries.  
  
 _Two-Hundred and fifty seven years, Crowley, let’s not pretend you haven’t been counting_.   
  
Crowley barely stopped his hand from going to his hair to check it was in order; he turned the motion into an adjustment of his tinted glasses. The angel was kneeling on the hard floor in a spotless white tunic, his legs bare. He wasn’t smiling. By the light of the fire, Crowley saw shadows beneath Aziraphale’s eyes and felt a pang of concern. Crowley had seen Aziraphale stricken with grief, had seen him teary and apologetic, but he’d never seen him look so...depleted. His hair was long, which was unusual for the angel. Silver fell in fine waves to his shoulders.  
  
 _Two-hundred and fifty seven years, four months_.  
  
Aziraphale was holding a piece of parchment so white it nearly glowed and adorned with flowing script. When he looked up, he didn’t seem surprised to see Crowley there, only rather lost and confused.   
  
It felt to Crowley as though he had too much he wanted to say, and nothing he should. He wanted to ask why Aziraphale was kneeling. He wanted to ask what he’d been doing for the past two and half centuries. Wanted to kneel beside him and look into his eyes for answers. Wanted to finish the fight they’d started in Italy. Wanted to hold Aziraphale’s face in his hands and promise never to leave him again.   
  
The silence lengthened as Crowley drank in the sight of the angel until Aziraphale, with wide eyes, held the parchment out. Crowley closed the door quietly, and walked the three paces to where Aziraphale knelt. He took the parchment from the angel’s hand and squinted at the shining words.   
  
_**An Official Commendation**_  
 _ **To the Principality Aziraphale**_  
 _ **For the Founding of the Inquisition, est. 1478**_  
 _ **And Fine Work Rewarding the Faithful and Scourging the Land of Heretics** _  
  
Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, kneeling like a supplicant, and sighed before pulling a rather less pristine piece of parchment from inside his vest and handing it to Aziraphale, who read:   
  
_**An Official Commendation**_  
 _ **To the Demon Crowley**_  
 _ **For the Founding of the Inquisition, est. 1478**_  
 _ **And Fine Work In Fomenting Dissent and Terror and Profaning the Name of Heaven**_  
  
When Aziraphale spoke, Crowley felt another pang; isn’t wasn’t the voice he remembered. It was too dry, too lifeless.   
  
“You’d think they’d at least change the wording.”  
  
Crowley sat down gingerly next to Aziraphale, as though afraid of startling him.   
  
“Nothing for it. Hell’s H.R. is staffed by former Heaven H.R. They remember all the forms.”   
  
_Two hundred and fifty seven years, four months, one week, five days_.

_Need to hold him._  
  
Aziraphale didn’t say anything, and Crowley’s sense of unease grew. Something was wrong here. With Aziraphale. Crowley got to his feet and started pacing the set of rooms, searching. It didn’t take long to open all the doors in the place, and Crowley returned to stand in front of Aziraphale, arms crossed.   
  
“Aziraphale.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Where is your soaking tub?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your soaking tub! You always have a soaking tub.”  
  
“I haven’t had one in some time, Crowley.”  
  
“And no pastries, either, I’ve checked. No cakes. No tarts. What is going on?”  
  
“Do you think I’ll discorporate if I’m not surrounded by indulgences, Crowley?”  
  
Aziraphale still hadn’t moved from the floor, but he was glaring, and speaking, which was an improvement on the strange numbness.   
  
“Of course not. It’s just not like you. You don’t seem quite yourself.” Crowley hesitated, then asked, “When was the last time you ate?”  
  
“We don’t need to eat, Crowley.”  
  
“I know that, but you like to. When was the last time?”  
  
Aziraphale’s face pinched, as though he was searching his memory.   
  
Crowley couldn’t stop himself from gasping. “Was it not today at least?”   
  
“I have self-control!” Aziraphale sounded as though he were trying to convince himself of something.   
  
“Aziraphale, this isn’t right. Wait here.”  
  
Crowley ran down to the inn’s kitchens. They were empty, of course, but there was a tray of some rather forlorn looking miguelitos that had obviously been disdained by the inn’s patrons and were being left to the staff. Crowley gave them a dubious look, but this wasn’t the time to be picky; he piled them high on a plate and ran back up the stairs two at a time.   
  
“No, thank you.”   
  
Crowley never thought he’d have to tempt Aziraphale to eat a pastry, but he was a master of his trade.   
  
“Well then. More for me.” He picked up the top miguelito delicately, brought it to his nose, and inhaled, letting his eyes flicker closed as though at a delightful scent despite the fact that it hadn’t much of a smell. Opening his eyes, he locked his gaze on Aziraphale while he bit into the pastry. It was bloody disgusting. He was not an expert, but he knew his teeth shouldn’t be sticking together. And he could tell that the custard had curdled. It was like eating a block of butter wrapped around sweetened scrambled egg.   
  
He gave a seductive moan and licked his lips, gauging Aziraphale’s reaction.   
  
“It’s awful, isn’t it?”  
  
“What? No, it’s wonderful, in fact, I shan’t share at all, I’m going to eat this whole plate—“  
  
“Crowley.”  
  
Crowley sighed and changed tactics.  
  
“Yes, they’re terrible. So why won’t you have one?”  
  
“That’s even worse.”  
  
“How is eating a disgusting pastry a worse sin than eating a delicious pastry?”  
  
“Because, I’d be eating it just to eat it, not even because it’s—“  
  
“Enjoyable? Aziraphale…where is this coming from?” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you been hanging around the Catholics?”

* * *

  
  
_“My dear, I wish you wouldn’t sound so very Catholic.”_  
  
Aziraphale’s memory mocked him. He’d been trying so hard. He’d chosen this inn because the pastries were always a disgrace. He prayed for hours on end, spent most of his days in the nearby chapel. But he hadn’t been able to expel Crowley from his mind.   
  
And now, here the demon was, all sweetness and concern, and, _God_ , but he looked beautiful. All in black, of course, with silver embellishments. Lithe and lovely, his hair in a queue that fell to his slim, swaying hips, with a few curls escaping at the temples.  
He was wearing his tinted glasses, which was a small mercy, as Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes. Those beautiful eyes, looking at Aziraphale as though he were worth fussing over. Here he was, close enough to touch, and all the desires Aziraphale had been fighting grew into a wave that was greater than Aziraphale’s carefully cultivated will.   
  
Was this a test? Was it a punishment?   
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
Crowley’s jaw set, the concern fleeing his face, and Aziraphale knew they were both thinking the same thing; Aziraphale had no standing to question Crowley in this moment, had no right to be prickly. The last time they’d spoken, Aziraphale had done something he wasn’t sure Crowley could, or should, forgive.  
  
And in the intervening years, he’d been trying to forget Crowley with so little success that he’d begun to think of the demon as an enemy. That wasn’t right; Aziraphale’s desires certainly weren’t Crowley’s fault, no more than it was Crowley’s fault that Aziraphale wasn’t strong enough to resist them.   
  
“Crowley—“  
  
“Never mind.” Crowley’s voice was soft, and Aziraphale ached to hear more of it. “Listen, I’ve a favor to return anyway.”  
  
“A favor?”  
  
Crowley was holding his hand out. “I’ve miracled a soaking tub into the next room.”  
  
“Crowley…”  
  
“Aziraphale, _listen_ to me for once.” Crowley made a quiet, frustrated sort of noise, and took off his glasses. “I’ve never seen you so wrung out. I don’t know what is troubling you, but I know that when I—when I _felt_ the way you _look_ now, you found me, and you brought me to the baths in Rome, and you gave me a day where I didn’t have to pretend I was alright. You gave me a day of rest. Let me do this for you.”  
  
Crowley’s voice had a pleading note in it that went straight through Aziraphale, leaving an open, vulnerable space. Besides, he _was_ tired. He _was_ wrung out. If Aziraphale had ever had the strength to resist when the most beautiful being he’d ever seen held out a hand and beckoned, he didn’t have it now. He took Crowley’s hand, who gave a small, relieved smile, and allowed himself to be led to the adjoining room.   
  
The soaking tub was large, and Aziraphale could smell rose scented oil on the air, see its sheen on the water through the steam. The room was full of beeswax tapers, burning clean and bright. It looked so warm and inviting, so restful, that Aziraphale gave a longing sigh as though the comforts he was seeing were just out of reach.   
  
Crowley came to stand before him in the silence, and with tentative fingers took the ends of Aziraphale’s nightshirt in both his hands. He began to draw the garment up, looking into Aziraphale’s eyes for any sign of resistance, but found none. Aziraphale could only hold Crowley’s gaze and lift his arms in cooperation.   
  
The fabric was rough, but Crowley was gentle. He was being so careful and slow, Aziraphale wanted to protest he didn’t deserve it, but couldn’t speak past the wanting that was building in him, the heat in his limbs at the feeling of Crowley’s fingers brushing his skin, the sight of Crowley undressing him. But there was one thing that would, without fail, turn the warmth of Aziraphale’s desire to a cold, sickened void; Shame. And Aziraphale had shame in abundance.   
  
_Such care, from one who owes me none?_  
  
 _Such grace, from one who Fell?_  
  
Tears prickled in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he couldn’t contain his guilt. Standing naked before the demon, he tried.   
  
“Crowley, please. I’m so sorry — “  
  
“Shh, Angel.” Aziraphale closed his eyes tightly at that, and turned his face away as the tears fell. He’d thought he would never hear Crowley call him ‘Angel’ again in that soft, affectionate way of his. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s light touch wiping the tears from his face, felt the cool skin of Crowley’s hand on his own, leading him to the bath. He lifted his foot and stepped in. The water was just on the edge of too hot. Steam surrounded his body. He submerged himself entirely, trying to compose himself. When he surfaced, Crowley was gone.   
  


* * *

  
  
Crowley stalked through the streets, Aziraphale’s nightshirt still in his hand. He was grinding his teeth together and struggling not to rip the thing in two.   
  
He’d become so angry when he’d gathered it in his hands to lift above Aziraphale’s head, a sharp jolt through the tenderness in his chest; the fabric felt rough against his fingers, and he knew it would feel even worse on the angel’s soft skin. Why would he not wear something softer? He’d never known Aziraphale to dress in anything less than luxury. Crowley had left, ostensibly to find food, because he knew that Aziraphale needed gentleness right now. He had to calm himself before he was gentle.  
  
Something was deeply wrong here. Aziraphale’s capacity for delight was one of the most beautiful and natural things Crowley had ever witnessed. He thought back to the garden, back to Aziraphale’s exploration of his own senses. Soaking in the water, basking in the sun as though he shared Crowley’s form. Crowley’s fist clenched harder at another memory; Aziraphale tracing an apricot with his tongue.   
  
_Hell_ , that had been a sight. Crowley replayed it in his mind so often he was beginning to suspect it hadn’t been as sensual as he remembered. But perhaps it had been. After all, the sounds Aziraphale had made in Rome when eating oysters, when he’d been massaged after his bath…they were moans of pleasure. Decadent, reveling sounds that sparked Crowley’s lust. Surely an angel wouldn’t intend to incite desire?  
  
Crowley’s pace had slowed, his fists unclenching. He stopped, realizing not only that he was half-hard in his leggings, but that he wasn’t sure where to find baked goods of any quality nearby anyway. He brought the nightshirt to his nose, inhaling. There was no scent of roses, no perfumes or oils that Aziraphale liked. There was only the scent of the angel himself; sweet and tart like fresh fruit and vanilla.   
  
_Raspberries and cream._  
  
All the sweetness and light of this Earth were embodied in Aziraphale. Crowley took a deep breath, pushed his anger aside. The anger wasn’t for Aziraphale, nor even for what Aziraphale had done that night in Firenze. When the angel had tried to share Heaven’s warmth with him, it had hurt, yes. But Aziraphale had done it because he was generous. Aziraphale had seen suffering and had given of himself to stop it.  
  
And sometimes, Crowley thought the thing he was most angry about was that the touch of divinity had taken him from the angel’s arms. He had held him so tightly, and Crowley had felt comforted. Crowley had wanted, so badly, to stay in Aziraphale’s embrace. He’d been scalded away from it, and that was something he struggled to forgive.  
  
Crowley sighed to himself, standing alone in the street. It was just past midnight. The bakers wouldn’t begin their work for another three or four hours yet. He turned around and began making his way back to Aziraphale’s rooms.   
  


* * *

  
  
Aziraphale had scrubbed the tears from his face and was breathing in the warm, fragrant air, when Crowley returned.   
  
The demon retrieved a stool and placed it next to the soaking tub, to look at Aziraphale as he spoke. His glasses were still off, and he wasn’t smiling. He was looking at Aziraphale with sorrow, and Aziraphale didn’t know what it was for or how to fix it. Crowley looked down at his hands, and Aziraphale, blushing, saw that the demon was still holding his nightshirt.   
  
“Something is wrong here, Aziraphale. Will you tell me what it is?”  
  
“I’ve been trying to—“ Aziraphale blushed harder, knowing how he must sound. “I’ve been trying to abstain from earthly pleasures.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Do you think it’s fit for an angel of the Lord to be continually surrounded by luxuries of the flesh?”  
  
“I don’t see why not. Aziraphale, you’ve always so enjoyed delicious food and massages and—“ Crowley held up the rough nightshirt “—and soft clothing. What happened?”  
  
Aziraphale saw the genuine confusion on Crowley’s face, and attempted to explain. “I hadn’t heard from the Almighty in quite some time, no assignments. I thought I had fallen away from the path somehow, done something wrong. I felt lost. And I had a friend who claimed to speak with God. She said these indulgences cloud us, keep us from hearing that voice.”   
  
“Aziraphale, you are not fallen. Trust me, you would know if you were. _I_ would know if you were. And four millennia of long baths and pastries before the Almighty notices and takes offense?”  
  
“Mock me if you like, Crowley. But after I started restraining myself, I received an assignment within the year.”  
  
“And have you been happy?”  
  
“I have been serving my Lord.”  
  
“That’s not what I asked you.”  
  
 _"For what can compare to the joy that is in the Lord? Nothing this Earth can provide, for all its temptations."_  
  
Tears gathered in Aziraphale’s eyes again. He looked down, saw the salt drops falling, the oil of roses parting and closing above it. The water parted again, this time as Crowley’s hand reached into the bath to take Aziraphale’s own. He caressed Aziraphale’s fingers and palm. Aziraphale could only stare, transfixed. Crowley, in the candlelight, touching him in this tender way. He blushed again, thinking of certain pleasures of the body he had been abstaining from for so long.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Do you know, I seem to recall another favor you once did me I never repaid,” Crowley said as he began to massage Aziraphale’s hand. He had tried for flippancy, but failed. His voice was low and soothing. Aziraphale’s fingers felt tense in his own.  
  
“Crowley, please, I don’t deserve…”  
  
“Deserve what, Angel?”  
  
“You’re being so kind to me.”  
  
“Why shouldn’t I be?”  
  
Aziraphale only looked away as though unable to meet Crowley’s eye. The tears continued to fall, though the angel made no sound. Crowley longed to wipe those tears away, but kept his hands where they were, kneading into Aziraphale’s palm. Running his fingers along the angel’s until they relaxed, until Aziraphale’s breathing slowed.   
  
“Your friend. You lost her?” Aziraphale nodded. “I’m so sorry, Angel. It’s not fair…they go so fast.”   
  
“My own fault. I should have known not to get attached.”  
  
“That’s not what you said when I wept as we left Hurko-hime. Can you not grant yourself the same grace you once did me?”  
  
Aziraphale leaned forward, elbows on knees. His hand slid out of Crowley's as the angel hid his face.  
  
“I—it’s harder, somehow.”  
  
Crowley wasn't sure how to answer in words, so he stood and moved the stool, coming to sit behind Aziraphale. He took hold of Aziraphale’s shoulders and gently guided him to lean back against the edge of the bath.  
  
 _Let me take care of you._

Crowley draped Aziraphale’s wet hair over one of the angel’s shoulders to bare his neck.   
  
“I’ve never seen you with your hair this long, Angel,” he said softly, kneading Aziraphale’s neck with his thumb. “When did you start wearing it like this?”  
  
“Oh…about seventy years ago, I suppose? What do you think?”  
  
“I think it’s lovely. But then I’ve always liked your hair short as well. It’s the color, you know.”   
  
“The color?”  
  
“Yes, it’s unique. True silver, always brings out your eyes.”  
  
Crowley kept his hands and voice steady with a great deal of effort. They were treading perilously close to a subject that was…well…perilous. It was the closest he’d come to admitting his attraction, little though he’d said. And his hands were on the angel’s naked, oil slick skin, oh, _Hell_ , and he wanted to run his hands lower. Tip Aziraphale’s head to one side and taste the roses on his skin, feel Aziraphale’s warm, wet hands reach up to keep Crowley’s head in place as he kissed and licked along the angel’s neck. He bit back a groan as he imagined Aziraphale tugging, lightly, on his hair to guide him to the angel’s lips. A warm, slow kiss.  
  
Aziraphale’s shoulders shook in gentle laughter.   
  
“ _You_ are saying that to _me_?”  
  
“Well whyever not?”  
  
“My dear boy…never mind.”   
  
Crowley wasn’t sure what was amusing, but Aziraphale’s voice was affectionate, not mocking. He began massaging Aziraphale’s shoulders, and smiled at the way the angel let his head fall forward in enjoyment.   
  
“How long are you in town, Angel?”  
  
“Mmm. Have to leave for Vienna in the morning.”  
  
“Not an easy journey. Can you put it off at all? Until you’re…”  
  
“Until I’m what?”  
  
“Better rested?”  
  
Crowley felt Aziraphale’s shoulders rise and fall and heard his sigh.   
  
“I shouldn’t. I’m meant to keep an eye on Rudolf.”  
  
“Would you believe me if I told you I received an assignment to go to Vienna and keep an eye on Rudolf?”  
  
“Certainly. Why would you lie about that?”  
  
“Well, I’m not lying, as it happens. Why don’t you let me keep an eye on him for you?”  
  
“How would you do that?”  
  
“Can’t be too difficult, make sure he doesn’t hurt anybody, says his prayers every night, yeah?” Aziraphale didn’t laugh, and Crowley bit his lip. “Time for bed, Angel.”  
  
Crowley felt Aziraphale’s shoulders stiffen.   
  
“I don’t sleep, Crowley.”  
  
“You do tonight.”  
  
Aziraphale didn’t answer, but relaxed his shoulders and stood, stepping out of the tub.   
  
Crowley tried to keep his eyes above Aziraphale’s shoulders. But truth be told, he didn’t try terribly hard. He often gave into temptation purely on principle, and in this moment, he was sorely tempted. Tempted, and failing to remember why he should keep his hands off of Aziraphale. Why he shouldn’t drop the towel he’d been planning to dry Aziraphale with, and lick the bathwater off the angel’s body instead.   
  
_Hell_ , he was beautiful. Soft and pink like the confections he loved. Silver curls at the juncture of thick thighs. Crowley wanted to squeeze those thighs as they wrapped around his waist. His mouth went dry at the thought, and he swallowed. But then he saw that Aziraphale’s face was turning red, and the angel had his arms crossed over his belly as though to hide it.   
  
_Ah, yes. That is why I shouldn’t lick Aziraphale everywhere. He doesn’t **want** it._  
  
Crowley stepped forward, but Aziraphale held out his hand.   
  
“Please…let me? Could you…Could you turn around?”  
  
Crowley closed his eyes and held out the towel, turning as he felt Aziraphale take it.   
  
“Of course. Forgive me.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Aziraphale was unsurprised to find his nightshirt was now made of silk. He was, however, surprised to find Crowley in his bed, which was now furnished with luxurious linens.   
  
He paused in the doorway.   
  
“Get in.”  
  
“Crowley…”  
  
“I’m not going to try to seduce you, Aziraphale. You’re safe.”  
  
Aziraphale made a soft, scoffing noise at himself. What had he been expecting? What had he been _hoping_? He was being ridiculous.   
  
He crossed the room and climbed under the sheets, feeling rather awkward. They lay on their sides facing each other, and Aziraphale felt the knot in his chest ease when the demon took the angel’s hand in his own. The moonlight slanted across Crowley’s lovely face, illuminating the demon’s wide, yellow eyes as they searched his own. Aziraphale found he could see the appeal of sleep. Of being so close and trusting with someone, of lying with them in the dark and the quiet.  
  
His eyelids felt heavy, so he let them close as he savored the feeling of Crowley’s fingers against his. In the silence before he fell asleep, he heard Crowley whisper.  
  
“You’re not a being of indulgence, Angel. You’re a being of _joy_. Don’t punish yourself for that. Please.”

* * *

  
  
When Aziraphale woke, he was alone. On a stand next to the bed, there was a fresh loaf of bread, a small pot of butter, and a jar of honey. A vial of oil Aziraphale knew would smell of roses. And a note.  
  
 _Went to Vienna to take care of your assignment._  
 _I know you feel you owe me something, so here’s what I’ll ask you to do._   
  
Aziraphale took a deep breath before reading on.  
  
 _Find a place to stay with a decent pastry chef. And take care of yourself. Not for my sake- for yours._  
 **  
**


	10. Body Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could teach you.”
> 
> “Hmm?”
> 
> “How to properly tempt humans, if we’re to keep up The Arrangement.”
> 
> Chapter rating: M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed from the month long wait, this chapter really fought with me. Today I decided to stop fiddling with it and just get it posted so we can all move on. There's like...KISSING to get to, and stuff??

**Edinburgh, 1601 A.D.**

Aziraphale sighed, disappointed in himself. This was his seventh temptation since the beginning of The Arrangement, and he wasn’t getting any better at it.   
  
“Why?”  
  
“What do you mean, why?”  
  
“You’re a stranger to my clan. You get nothing from a raid. Why?”   
  
“Because those cattle are…well…they’re right there, aren’t they? There for the taking!”  
  
Crowley made this all sound so easy, so simple.   
  
“I think you’re a spy.” Noamhain stepped in close with a menacing leer, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes.   
  
“Do take a step back, my good fellow, you’re large enough I can see you perfectly well without you crowding me. And you smell of sheep, I might add.”  
  
“You’ll no’ order me about. You’re a little man, I have to get this close to see you. And you smell of…” Noamhain’s nostrils flared and he scowled. “Roses.”  
  
Heavens, this was going poorly. Aziraphale could practically hear Crowley laughing at him.   
  
Wait a moment.  
  
He _could_ hear Crowley laughing at him.  
  
“Crowley!” Aziraphale felt his face flush in anger and embarrassment. “Now, really. If you were going to wander up here anyway why bother with the coin toss?”  
  
Noamhain opened his mouth again, but Aziraphale heard a snap of demonic fingers and the burly Scotsman froze. Aziraphale stepped away, frowning.   
  
“You could have done that when he had his mouth closed.”  
  
Crowley emerged from behind the nearby tree, doubled over, practically wheezing with laughter, damn him.   
  
“I don’t see what’s so funny!”  
  
“You are! How long have we spent among humans? You’d think you’d never met one!” Crowley put on a stuffy voice Aziraphale assumed was meant to mock him, saying, “Hello good sir, do you know, I think you ought to raid Clan McDonough this evening, steal a few cattle.”  
  
“I was a bit more subtle than that!”  
  
“You were not, Angel, I’ve told you, you have to make them think its their own idea or they’ll get suspicious—“  
  
Aziraphale drew himself up, huffing in anger. “Oh, that’s rich advice, does this sound familiar?” He affected a bored, langourous tone. “It’s ever so _easy_ , Aziraphale, the humans would do it all _anyway_ , Aziraphale—“  
  
Crowley was still laughing, so Aziraphale rolled his eyes and began to march away. He heard Crowley’s footsteps behind him, laughter still in the demon’s voice as he called out, “Oh, don’t be angry with me, Angel! Look, I’ll make it up to you. Come have a soak and a drink with me.”  
  
Aziraphale stopped, considering. Still facing away from Crowley, he asked, aware of the sullen tone of his voice, “What vintage?”  
  
Crowley’s voice become softer, wheedling. “A lovely red.”  
  
Aziraphale cocked his head as if considering, waiting for Crowley to sweeten the pot. He did, of course. The demon was nothing if not reliable.   
  
“And how about some scones first? With plum jam and clotted cream?”  
  
Aziraphale turned, smiling. “And tea?”  
  
“And tea.”

* * *

  
  
Crowley’s rooms were lit by a roaring fire against the chill and rain, and had a copper soaking tub large enough for two. They faced each other, Aziraphale’s left leg barely brushing Crowley’s right in the steaming water. Aziraphale had felt self-conscious at first, sitting naked and so close. It wasn’t the first time he’d bathed nude with Crowley; they’d made rather a habit of it over the years, enjoying the luxury together, as they had in Japan. But, Lord, those had all been public baths. This was so very intimate. And the conversation had been stilted when they’d first climbed in together - Crowley’s pale skin and lean limbs in the firelight - Aziraphale had to focus so much of his attention on keeping his eyes on Crowley’s face.  
  
But now, hours and several bottles later, the edges of Aziraphale’s discomfort had softened. They shared memories and quiet laughter, and if Aziraphale’s eyes had joined the firelight in caressing Crowley’s face, Crowley didn’t seem to notice.   
  
“I could teach you.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“How to properly tempt humans, if we’re to keep up The Arrangement.”  
  
Aziraphale gave a drunken pout. “What’s the point, Crowley? I’m terrible at temptation. Which isn’t fair, you do lovely blessings!” He made a frustrated gesture, and some of his wine sloshed out of his cup, and he pouted again.  
  
“And how would you know that?”  
  
“I…well, I wanted to be sure you were doing the thing properly, you know—“  
  
“Are you telling me that we’ve been following each other about for the past twenty years--“ Aziraphale started to giggle. “—In the name of efficiency, just, just, hiding behind trees and the like, watching each other, when we could have been doing _this_ all along--“ he paused. “Did you watch my temptations as well?”  
  
Aziraphale’s giggle ended with an abrupt hiccup. He looked away, taking another gulp of wine. Because the truth was, he had. And at first he had told himself it was to study the technique, but the knot of desire, jealousy, and shame that pulled at his gut when he watched was undeniable.   
  
He’d never seen Crowley take someone to bed, thank God, but Crowley never needed to. His sinuous hips, the way he draped himself over furniture, the sharp lines of his face, a flick of his pointed tongue moistening his lips. They were clay in Crowley’s clever hands; they’d do anything he suggested, just for the chance.   
  
It made Aziraphale uncomfortably aware of the things he’d do, just for the chance.   
  
There was something grotesque in seeing his own desperation echoed on the faces of the humans Crowley tempted, but it was important to make himself watch.  
  
It was important, to remind himself that he, Aziraphale, was not special. Crowley’s innuendos and casual touches and the slinking way he walked; it was just how Crowley _was_. He was a creature of temptation, and Aziraphale was tempted. That did not mean Crowley wanted him, any more than he wanted anyone else he tempted.   
  
Aziraphale could only imagine the disdain Crowley must feel for these humans who slavered after him, and had no desire to be numbered among them.   
  
But he had Crowley’s friendship, Crowley’s trust; that made him special to Crowley. He would not ruin it by proving to be one among many who lusted after the demon.   
  
“Yes, I did, as it happens,” he said quietly. Crowley was watching him thoughtfully, and Aziraphale could only hope his face showed none of his conflict and that Crowley wouldn’t press him. Aziraphale was a terrible liar, and he knew _that_ about himself, at least.  
  
“Learn anything useful?”  
  
Aziraphale scoffed. “Clearly, no.”  
  
“If you’ve watched me, you know it’s easy as I said. A hint there, suggestion here.”  
  
“Your…technique would not be effective for me, my dear.”  
  
“Whyever not?”  
  


* * *

  
  
Crowley watched as Aziraphale snorted and, undeniably drunk, stood up. He was rather unsteady on his feet, and Crowley giggled into his wine as Aziraphale stumbled (spilling more wine), naked, out of the soaking tub.   
  
He pillowed his head on his forearms on the edge of the tub, unable to do more than gaze contentedly at Aziraphale, nude and happy in the firelight. It was such a delight to see him this way, inhibitions lowered. Smiling and giggling and tripping over his own feet in a way that would have sober Aziraphale mortified.   
  
And it was no hardship to let his eyes wander over the angel’s body. Crowley thought of cherished memories of Aziraphale’s touch. Of waking with his arm around him, holding him close. An all-too-brief embrace in Firenze. Perhaps best of all, spending the night with him in Spain. It wasn't a _happy_ memory, precisely. It had been hard to see Aziraphale in such distress. But he'd felt close to him, had treasured the angel's trust in accepting his care. Crowley hadn’t slept at all that night. He’d spent the hours watching the moonlight trail across Aziraphale’s face, his silver curls. Savoring their closeness, the quiet space and the breath they’d shared. The feel of Aziraphale’s hand in his. Heart in his throat, he’d been so bold as to gently kiss Aziraphale’s fingers as he slept.   
  
But in _this_ moment, drunk and glowing, his thoughts weren't nearly so chaste. He was staring at Aziraphale’s legs. He had, over the centuries, developed a bit of an obsession with Aziraphale’s thighs, and he so rarely got to see them. Thick and sturdy, but soft. They made him want to _grab_ -  
  
Aziraphale made a quick up-and-down flourish with his hand, and he was no longer nude, and so it was Crowley’s turn to pout. But he snorted soon after, seeing Aziraphale was now attired in tight, black clothing with silver embellishments.   
  
“What are you doing, Angel?”  
  
“I’m going to give your technique a try, wait a moment, where are your glasses?” And he snatched them up from their place on the mantle. Putting them on, he said, “To help me get into character, you know.” He began a sort of awkward sashay around the room.  
  
Well, if Aziraphale’s thighs must be covered, it was delicious to see them in such tight trousers. And his _arse_ , Hell…  
  
Aziraphale draped himself over the chaise lounge, limbs every which way, looking awfully uncomfortable.   
  
“Fancy a cattle raid, my good fellow?”  
  
Crowley nearly drowned, he was laughing so hard.   
  
“See, I look ridiculous, I told you!”   
  
“Well, you’ve got the walk all wrong, hang on a moment-“ and Crowley emerged from the tub himself, drying quickly and pulling on his own black trousers. Leaving his chest bare, he held out a hand to Aziraphale and pulled him up. “Here, I’ll teach you.”  
  
“Please do, Heavens, I’ve always wondered how you walk as you do, it’s like you’re still part serpent-“  
  
He turned Aziraphale so he was facing away, placed his hands on the angel’s hips, focusing on keeping his grip light. He tried to keep his tone light as well as he said, too close to Aziraphale’s ear, “Then I suppose you must imagine you’ve a serpent inside you.” He felt the angel stiffen slightly, a small jolt that ran through his fingers. He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face, so he didn’t know what it meant. Was he displeased, or only startled? Since the beginning of this world, Crowley had been studying Aziraphale, and he knew him so well. He knew what every quirk of his brow meant, every twitch of his lips.   
  
But this was a whole realm of knowing that they did not have. He wished he knew his Angel’s cues by touch as well as sight. He wished he had the right to learn the shape of Aziraphale’s mouth under his as he smiled, as he gasped, as he moaned.   
  
_Please, please don’t pull away._  
  
He fought to keep his fingers from gripping the softness he held. And Aziraphale didn’t step away, only cocked his head as if awaiting instruction. It was a strangely defiant gesture, as though he were acting on a dare. Which, if Crowley was honest with himself, was precisely what he was offering.   
  
Crowley cleared his throat. “Loosen up your hips, Angel.” He was giddy with relief and started to giggle again, he couldn’t help it. “How can you be so stiff when you’re _drunk_?”  
  
Aziraphale snorted and bent over slightly as if to put his hands on his knees for support. The movement pushed his arse into Crowley’s hips, who gulped.  
  
“What do you mean, loosen up my hips, how vague can one be, honestly-“  
  
“Just—here, stand up straight. Lovely, now, follow along.” He crowded up to Aziraphale, and started to sway, encouraging the angel to match his movement.   
  
Aziraphale was trying, he really was, and the back of his neck was turning that gorgeous shade of pink that said he was embarrassed.   
  
“You’re moving your upper body back and forth, not your lower body. Focus on keeping your shoulders still. There! That’s better! Now smooth it out.”   
  
“Crowley, I’m not very adept at this-“  
  
“You’re doing brilliantly! Now keep that sway and walk over to the chaise lounge. Then sort of…drop into it. Like a cat would.”   
  
Aziraphale obliged, the sway of his hips unnatural and exaggerated, but terribly tempting to Crowley all the same. He’d wanted to stay as they were, smelling the roses on Aziraphale’s skin, but in truth it had been a near thing to keep the angel from feeling his growing hardness.   
  
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley from his lounging position, clearly seeking praise. Crowley gave it, willingly.   
  
“Perfect, Angel! Very tempting.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Aziraphale laughed, as Crowley had hoped he would.   
  
“Your turn!” said Aziraphale with another flourish, and Crowley found himself suddenly dressed in impeccably tailored beige and white.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was a silly thing to do, but Aziraphale really couldn’t be expected to look at Crowley, shirtless in his tight black breeches, for one second longer. If he did, he would plead with him either to put a shirt on, or take the breeches off, and neither request could be made casually. To be truthful, he’d panicked.   
  
His heart plummeted at the sight of Crowley in light colors, but it was the sort of plummet with which he was very much familiar. The sort of plummet which said, _Oh, no. He’s even more beautiful than I thought_. He’d felt it so many times over the years, and perhaps it was time to accept that he was endlessly, hopelessly attracted to the demon no matter what style of dress that century demand, or how he wore his hair.   
  
“Oh, Aziraphale this isn’t fair! You said my blessings were, and I quote, ‘lovely’, is this really necessary?”  
  
“Well, if you wish to be excused from this exercise, let me ask you this: did you stay to watch the rest of Hamlet, at least?”  
  
“I told you, it’s too gloomy.”  
  
“But it’s so thrilling! I mean, there’s a play, within the play! It’s brilliant!”   
  
Crowley was laughing at him, but in a friendly way.  
  
“It’s ridiculous!”   
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because it’s…that’s not how guilt works.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, sobriety beginning to creep, unwelcome, into the corners of Aziraphale’s mind.   
  
“Never mind, Angel.” Crowley’s voice was soft. “But you’ve made a mistake with the design, I think.” Crowley made a quick, graceful gesture, and the pattern of the doublet changed subtly. Aziraphale stood to see it more clearly, and when he looked up, he was smiling into Crowley’s eyes. He’d transformed it into a tartan pattern, of light brown and cream. It was something Aziraphale wanted to keep for himself.   
  
“It’s lovely,” he breathed.  
  
Crowley was smiling back down at him, and Aziraphale held himself very still.   
  
“We are in Scotland, after all,” Crowley said in such an exaggerated brogue that they both began giggling again. Aziraphale’s head fell forward onto Crowley’s chest, and he felt Crowley’s arms wrap around him to keep him there. 


	11. Pink in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: E
> 
> Crowley woke to the sound of Aziraphale carefully closing his bedroom door. He felt a moment of disappointment; he’d stayed on the sofa to have Aziraphale’s comforting presence in the room as he fell asleep. He curled himself up even tighter, trying to let go of the feeling, closed his eyes —and abruptly snapped them open again, as another sound hit his ears. 
> 
> A moan. It was quiet, and quickly stifled, but unmistakable.
> 
> Oh, Satan. 
> 
> Was…was Aziraphale wanking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ
> 
> I’d like to put a warning and an explanation at the top of this chapter. Aziraphale is dealing with self-hate and body image issues here. These descriptions are drawn heavily from my experience as a super horny christian with a visceral hatred of their body and intense shame around sex and attraction. It’s not a fun combination! 
> 
> Aziraphale’s thoughts DO NOT represent an author’s commentary on any certain body type, and it’s certainly not expressing distaste for the body of the actor who portrays Aziraphale. He’s a beautiful human! I’m exploring my own experience through this character.
> 
> Chapter title, again, "Pink in the Night" by Mitski. Go listen it's my number one Ineffable Husbands ship song.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-B5yr2zyY0
> 
> Also, thank you so much to everyone for all the kudos and comments. I can't tell you how much it means to me to read your kind words!

**France, 1793 A.D.**

Ambroise looked up from his bookkeeping as the bell above the shop door rang. At the sight of his new customer, he immediately removed his spectacles, placed them in his breast pocket, and ran a quick hand through his dark curls. He stood, and gave a brief bow. “ _Bonjour! Je peux vous-aidez_?” 

The customer was an elegant looking man, perhaps fifteen years Ambroise’s senior. To Ambroise’s eye, his clothing was fine, but not ostentatious. He had pale skin, pink cheeks, and silver curls, and there was an innocence about his face that was quite charming. He smiled shyly, and Ambroise felt his own cheeks go a bit pink. 

“Uh, _oui, je veux_ …um… _acheter_ …”

 _Mon dieu_ , the man’s French was atrocious. 

“Excuse me, monsieur, I do speak English if you prefer.” 

“Oh, thank heavens. Forgive me. I understand you carry…um…”

And here the man’s English seemed to fail him as well, but the blush was clear enough. 

“Of course, Monsieur…?”

“Ah. Fell. Mr. Fell.”

“Monsieur Fell.” He put a hand to his chest. “Ambroise.”

Monsieur Fell nodded, and Ambroise gestured the man towards to back of the shop. 

“Here is our selection of _aides d’amour_. Is there anything you are looking for in particular?” 

“I’m…I’m not certain. Perhaps you could guide me?” The blush deepened, and Ambroise smiled. 

“Happily.” He showed Mr. Fell their collection of _consolatuers_ , passing over the less expensive varieties of leather, wood, and wax. This gentleman could clearly afford a higher quality material. Perhaps the ivory? It was certainly a beautiful piece. But, no, Monsieur Fell’s lips turned down in polite distaste. Perhaps he considered such material cruel. There were those that did. 

And so Ambroise gave him as assessing look, before smiling again and guiding him to a leather case containing two items, a matched set made of smooth, polished rosewood. There was a _consolateur_ , of course, as well as a smaller, almost pear shaped device. 

Monsieur Fell brought his hands together, like a child staring longingly at a bon bon. “Oh, my. They’re rather pretty.”

“I thought these would be to your taste. An elegant set for an elegant gentleman.” He was laying it on rather thick, perhaps, but it was nothing more than the truth. 

Monsieur’s Fell’s blush spread from his cheeks all the way down his neck as he stared at the set. He pointed to the smaller of the two items, and opened his mouth. But nothing came out. He seemed unsure of how to phrase his inquiry. Really, the gentleman was _trop charmant_. 

“ _Pour le fundament_ ,” Ambroise said, daring to give Monsieur Fell a small, knowing smile. 

“Ah.” The gentleman cleared his throat, and asked Ambroise to wrap the case up for him. 

Ambroise gave another quick bow, and did as he had been requested. He wondered, briefly, if he should for once in his life be discreet. But Monsieur Fell was so handsome, and Ambroise was drawn to the man’s innocent instinct for pleasure. And so he gathered his courage, smiled demurely up into the man’s face, and asked, “Perhaps Monsieur would like a demonstration?”

Monsieur Fell looked confused, then startled. “My dear boy!” He said, reaching out a hand, then drawing it back. “You mustn’t feel any sort of obligation…Heavens…are you…” the man’s voice dropped to concerned whisper. “Are you here against your wishes?”

Ah. The man thought Ambroise was forced to sell himself by the proprietor. Ambroise huffed, not knowing whether to laugh or scowl. No one whored Ambroise out but Ambroise, and on this occasion he’d not been seeking payment. 

He straightened his back and replaced his spectacles. “I can assure you, Monsieur, I do not make such offers under any obligation but to my own inclination.”

The confusion on Monsieur Fell’s face deepened. “Then whyever would you ask _me_ …” His brow furrowed, he dug into a pocket and handed Ambroise a _pourboire_ of such generous proportions that it would have purchased a full week of some rather unconventional nights with Ambroise had they been on offer. “If ever you need help, do come find me. A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop, in London.” Ambroise gave him an exasperated sort of smile. 

“And if you ever change your mind, Monsieur Fell…” he drew a finger down the length of the gentleman’s lapel, stepping close. “You know where to find me.” 

* * *

**London, 1793 A.D.**

“Can I sssleep here, Angel?” 

Crowley’s slur was rather pronounced, not surprising given the quantity of Château Lafite they’d consumed between the two of them. 

“Of course, Crowley. I’ll make up the bed.”

“No, wanna sleep…your sssofa. ’S nice.” 

Aziraphale hesitated. “I generally read in this room at night. Will the light bother you?” 

Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale fetched a blanket and pillow. Crowley had discarded his long overcoat hours ago, tossing it over the back of the aforementioned sofa. He fumbled himself out of his breeches, and was now wearing a black linen shirt and drawers. His long legs were unsteady as Aziraphale placed the bedding on the sofa. 

“I don’t see why don’t sober up before bed. Won’t you feel awful in the morning?”

“Like falling ‘sleep like this. ’S nice. Everything’s fuzzy.” Crowley collapsed happily onto the cushions, and Aziraphale smiled, and laid the blanket out over him. As he tucked the edges of the blanket around Crowley with a level of care that was not strictly necessary, Crowley propped himself up on an elbow and grabbed his hand. 

“Angel…promissse me…won’t be so reckless…”

Aziraphale’s smiled widened as he leaned over Crowley. 

“I can’t promise you I won’t have another terrible craving for crêpes, you know.”

Crowley squeezed his hand. “Mean it…I’ll learn to make you crêpes. Don’t put yourssself….danger?” 

Aziraphale’s heart did a funny little wobble in his chest. “Very well, my dear. I promise.”

Crowley sighed and relaxed back against the pillow, but kept Aziraphale’s hand in his. He shut his eyes, frowning slightly. “Lasst time…you…discorporated. Took me agesss to find you.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say to that. It was true, of course. He’d been in China at the end of the second century A.D. All that business with the Han Dynasty, quite a mess, really, and he’d been perhaps a touch too… _hands on_ , and had been beheaded by a warlord who was unimpressed with the superstitions that had sprung up around him. 

And it had been over three hundred years before he’d seen Crowley again. 

Crowley was gently running his fingers over Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale felt his face flush. He was grateful Crowley’s eyes were closed. 

“I’m sorry, my dear boy. I promise. I’ll be more careful.”

“…sssoft…”

And then Crowley was asleep. 

Aziraphale allowed himself a moment to linger, feeling the cool skin of Crowley’s fingers on his. He’d have liked to stay, to lay down next to the demon, to feel his sharp edges and soft hair. He still remembered that night he'd held Crowley in Italy, how glorious Crowley's body had felt in his arms. But he hadn’t been asked, and so he slipped away as quietly as he could. 

He busied himself making a cup of chocolate, and changing into his silk nightshirt, a warm dressing gown, and a pair of slippers. Settling himself in his favorite armchair by the fire, he put his feet up on the ottoman, sighed contentedly, and opened his book. 

_A Merchant traveling into a foreign Country, fell extremely in Love with a young Lady; but being a stranger in that Nation, and beneath her, both in Birth and Wealth, he could have but little hopes of obtaining his desire…_

It was an intriguing story, wholly unlike anything he’d ever read. And yet his eyes would, with distressing frequency, flick up from the page to look at Crowley. He’d curled in upon himself, legs tucked up nearly against his chest, gripping the blanket close. His hair had fallen out of its precise rolls, and was now curled about his face and spread upon the pillow. It looked lovely against the cream and gold of the pillow and sofa. His mouth was open, just slightly, breathing soft. 

Aziraphale thought he could still feel Crowley’s fingers. That had been the second time they’d touched that day. Nearly the moment they’d finished eating, Crowley had taken Aziraphale’s hand, and then they were standing in the bookshop. 

“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale had said, and with a gesture changed back to his silk and lace and fine wool. The ridiculous cap was gone.

“Oy! Not sure why you’re thanking God, _They’re_ not the one who saved your lovely arse today.”

Aziraphale smiled at the memory, still gazing at Crowley. 

_Heavens, he’s beautiful._

Aziraphale cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, thinking of how Crowley had looked when he’d first seen him that day. 

_"Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel, only humans do that."_

All deep reds and black, as always, reclining in the corner of that dank cell as if it were a palace of luxury and he had not a care in the world. The relief Aziraphale had felt upon hearing his voice, so quickly burned up in the heat of lust. 

He’d been prim to cover it, but the heat had stayed with him. And Crowley’s touch, his affectionate words…

This was getting ridiculous, really. Aziraphale had given up hope that his desire would pass, and now wanted only to conceal it from Crowley, but it became more and more difficult as the years went on. 

The heat that had been simmering under Aziraphale’s skin was rising as he watched Crowley sleeping in the flickering, golden light. He bit his bottom lip as he felt the wetness between his legs begin to soak into his drawers. Only two options now; he could get himself under control, perhaps submerge himself in cold water, or he could quietly ease the ache he felt, and hope Crowley did not wake. 

Either way, he’d need a new pair of drawers. 

He stood up, very, very quietly, and tiptoed into his bedchamber. He closed the door gently behind him and leaned against it, tilting his head back, and took a breath. Behind his eyes, he still saw deep red ringlets, a sharp face softened in sleep. 

His fingers wandered, untying the sash of his dressing gown. He shrugged it off, and lifted the hem of his nightshirt, sliding his fingers beneath his waistband. At the first brush of his finger over his clit, he moaned into the dark. With a whimper, he placed his free hand over his mouth, but didn’t stop his stroking. 

Normally, this was the sort of thing he did in his bed, under the covers. With all the lights out, and the doors and windows firmly shut. This was reckless, but he couldn’t manage to stop pleasuring himself long enough to walk to his bed. So he stayed where he was, leaning against the door, his legs spreading as he slid his fingers over his slick, wet cunt. 

His mouth fell open, and he ran a tongue over his fingers, sucking them. 

_Oh, Heavens_. 

This wasn’t going to take long.

Slow circles, almost too slow, to tease himself. Tracing his entrance, then up over his clit, gasping quietly at the apex of each orbit. He could feel a hot blush spreading over his body as he slid his middle finger inside himself, curling it, fucking himself with it so with every thrust the base of his finger met his clit. 

His knees were weak, and he needed more. Sliding down the door, he knelt with legs spread and added another finger. With two fingers inside himself and his other hand running over his lips, down his neck, tweaking his nipples, he’d never felt so decadent, so…wicked. 

Long moments passed as he fucked himself, until he was nearly sobbing with frustration. He was hovering on the edge of completion, and it just wasn’t enough. 

Breathing heavily, he stood on shaky legs and walked to his wardrobe to retrieve what he had hidden there, ducking into his room to remove it from his pocket after Crowley had miracled them back to the bookshop.

He removed what the nice young man at the “Perfumerie” had called a _consolateur_ from the case, studying the lacquered rosewood, running his fingers over it. He thought, perhaps, it oughtn’t to be used dry, and so he bought it to his lips, taking it into his mouth. His eyes closed at an unexpected jolt of pleasure, and he gasped around the length before withdrawing it. 

Feeling rather desperate, he laid down on his bed without pulling back the sheets, and slowly inserted the _consolateur_. He covered his mouth again to stifle another moan, and, oh, God, this was what he needed. 

Well. Almost. 

Aziraphale’s fantasies, in that moment, were not terribly coherant. A jumble of images he longed to see and sounds he longed to hear; Crowley, pressing him down into the mattress. Crowley, entering him, moaning in pleasure. Crowley, panting, and gasping in his ear. Pleading, even. 

_Angel, please, please, yes, Angel—_

Aziraphale felt he would give anything to hear Crowley’s voice gone low and gravelly with wanting, to see his beautiful body flushed with arousal. To hold Crowley’s beloved face between his palms, to say, “look at me,” and to be obeyed, so that he could watch those yellow eyes go wide as Crowley spent inside of him, oh, _God_ —

Aziraphale bit down onto his finger to stifle his cry as he came, fluttering around the _consolateur_ with his hips thrusting. When it was over, he took his hand away from his mouth.

With the clamor of arousal slowly receding, Aziraphale began to feel ridiculous. A sheen of sweat cooled on his skin as his breath slowed. Shame and despair and longing threatened to overwhelm him; with a quick miracle, the _consolateur_ was cleaned and hidden away again, and Aziraphale closed his eyes and curled in upon himself. 

It didn’t help. He could still feel the ache between his legs, and he was disgusted with himself, with his body. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, and one relatively recent if one considered the long span of Aziraphale’s life. In fact, there had been a time when he had been delighted by his body. It had been a joy to discover all its senses, and he had liked how comfortable it was. The softness of his belly and legs, the gentleness of his face. 

But then the humans had started to wear things besides flowing robes, and various shapes and figures went in and out of fashion, but Aziraphale’s never seemed to be one of them. 

But still, he wanted, and worse, he wanted to _be_ wanted. It was as though his body didn’t understand that the world didn’t see it as an instrument of sexual pleasure, and Aziraphale was somewhat mortified by intensity of the desire he felt. It didn’t seem to match with his outward appearance. Shouldn’t this sort of…libido belong within a more attractive form?

But worst of all was that he wanted Crowley’s desire so badly it was painful. He didn’t want to be fucking himself with a rosewood phallus, not twenty feet away from the demon he loved. But that was all he could have.

* * *

Crowley woke to the sound of Aziraphale carefully closing his bedroom door. He felt a moment of disappointment; he’d stayed on the sofa to have Aziraphale’s comforting presence in the room as he fell asleep. He curled himself up even tighter, trying to let go of the feeling, closed his eyes —and abruptly snapped them open again, as another sound hit his ears. 

A moan. It was quiet, and quickly stifled, but unmistakable.

 _Oh, Satan_. 

Was…was Aziraphale wanking?

Crowley’s mouth went dry with the suddenness and intensity of his arousal at the image. He stretched his body out on the sofa, rolling onto his back with his hand already reaching towards his cock, but paused. Ought he? What if Aziraphale came back into the room? But there was a rhythmic rustling that said, quite clearly, that Aziraphale would himself be occupied for some time. 

He took himself in hand, gritting his teeth against his own moans. Normally, when he was alone in his apartments, Crowley could be…rather vocal in these moments. He would touch himself in bed, or in the bath, or standing in his parlor; wherever he happened to be when thoughts of Aziraphale tempted him. One morning, he’d stepped out of bed to golden sunlight and gentle birdsong drifting in through one of the high windows. He’d been simply ambushed by a vision of Aziraphale, standing in that sunlight and fresh morning air. Aziraphale, with his beautiful wings manifested, silver hair long, wearing nothing but an artfully draped silk bedsheet. Crowley had sat back down on his bed and touched himself, imagining he could stand behind Aziraphale in the sunlight and run his hands through the angel’s snowy feathers and fine curls. Pleas and praise and confessions had escaped his lips, as always.

_So beautiful—_

_Oh, Angel, my lovely Angel—_

_Please, Aziraphale, please may I—_

_I’ve wanted you for so long, my Angel—_

_I love you, I love you, I love you—_

He was never sure, in those moments, if he was torturing himself or providing a temporary escape into Heaven. Perhaps it was one and the same. 

And so as Crowley tried to swallow his moans and whisper his love, he wondered if it would indeed be such a bad thing were the angel to hear, and wander in. In Crowley’s current state, filled with wine and frustrated lust, he couldn’t imagine what was the _likely_ end of such a scene, mutual embarrassment and awkward conversation. He instead allowed himself to imagine Aziraphale would find the sight tempting.

_He approaches the sofa, eyes locked on Crowley’s. He doesn’t look away, but the flush in his cheeks and the way he bites his lower lip betrays his nervousness. The heat builds between them as Crowley slows but does not stop his stroking._

_“Crowley—I was doing much the same in my room but I find I—I find I’d rather your tongue than my fingers—“_

_“Yes, Angel, please, quickly-“_

_Aziraphale smiles, and lifts his nightshirt, and straddles Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley takes his hands off of himself to gratefully grab the angel’s arse and guide him (and, though Crowley has no way of knowing, really, he imagines that today, Aziraphale has a cunt) to Crowley’s mouth._

_Aziraphale…he tastes like Heaven, so wet and wide open for Crowley’s mouth. Crowley runs his hands over Aziraphale’s thighs and hips and stomach, cool silk and warm skin brushing his fingers. He runs his tongue, slowly, from the angel’s entrance to his clit. Aziraphale moans and throws his head back as Crowley begins to circle his tongue around the center of the angel’s pleasure._

_Aziraphale grinds himself steadily onto Crowley’s tongue, and Crowley wants to keep his eyes open to see the angel fall apart, but they flutter shut in ecstasy. Humming in satisfaction, he loses himself instead in the feel of silver curls tickling his nose, in the sweet and salty taste, the wetness drenching his tongue and chin._

_Aziraphale’s right hand grips the back of the sofa, and his left tangles into Crowley’s hair, making Crowley moan all the louder._

_“Yes, Crowley, you—you feel so good, oh Crowley, my darling, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop—“_

_A beautiful plea to hear, but unnecessary. Crowley doesn’t think he could stop if the assembled hosts of Heaven and Hell materialized right in this room and voiced their collective displeasure. Crowley won’t stop until he tastes Aziraphale coming on his tongue, and he grips Aziraphale’s hips tightly to be sure the angel knows it._

_Aziraphale cries out, and his cunt flutters around Crowley’s tongue—_

Crowley bit down on his lip, hard, and swallowed his own cry as his seed pumped out over his fingers and onto his bare belly. He was breathing hard, and trying to understand why there were tears in his eyes. 

He’d always thought that perhaps Aziraphale, despite having made An Effort, wasn’t interested in sex. He reminded himself as well that interest in pleasuring oneself and interest in being pleasured by others were not one and the same. 

Still, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps Aziraphale simply did not want sex _with_ _Crowley_. It wasn’t terribly surprising, of course, despite how desperately Crowley had tried to keep the thought at bay. But when it came down to it, Crowley was a demon. And though Aziraphale was his own brand of hedonist when it came to food and luxury, that did not mean the angel would stoop to fuck one of the Fallen.

T _oo high, Crowley. You reach too high_ , he reminded himself. 

As always, he fought his own caution. 

_But he cares for me, that couldn’t be more obvious_. 

And Aziraphale’s affection was no less dear for being platonic. 

Crowley remembered their seventh century visit to Abya Yala. (It had been brief, since Aziraphale rather wilted in the heat, and Crowley had more or less followed him when he’d left.) They’d certainly been conspicuous among the locals, who had seemed to find Aziraphale exotic and desirable and Crowley merely strange. In a single day, Crowley would helplessly watch attempt after failed attempt to seduce the angel. Some were subtle, some less so. 

One woman Crowley had found so stunning that as she approached, he tried to prepare himself to watch Aziraphale leave with her. She was soft, like the angel, but tall and with thick dark hair that fell to her waist. Lovely, laughing brown eyes. She took Aziraphale’s hand, who gave her a friendly smile. Then she stroked along both his biceps, stepping closer, stroking his face. Aziraphale had blushed. “Goodness. We’re not so different as all that,” he’d said, as though her exploratory touches were simple curiosity. 

She’d laughed, and drawn Aziraphale’s attention to her friend, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Equally lovely, not as tall, even softer, more rolls and curves. The friend joined in the stroking, her hands straying to Aziraphale’s hips. Crowley’s eyes grew wider, Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. It had to be clear what was on offer here.

If Crowley had thought he’d be welcome to watch, he might have encouraged it himself. But the thought of Aziraphale taking pleasure without him there to at least _witness_ it was maddening. He’d turned away, blood rushing in his ears, and missed whatever it was Aziraphale had said to the women that made them leave. No doubt something unspeakably courteous and kind. Aziraphale had never left his side, looking puzzled for the rest of the day. 

Crowley turned his memories over in his mind, memories he had avoided. So many humans over the millennia, not just in Abya Yala, approaching Aziraphale with glances shy or bold. Aziraphale had been friendly with all of them, and with those less subtle, had seemed not so much uninterested or even flattered but simply baffled. 

Was it possible Aziraphale couldn’t tell when someone wanted to bed him? That he didn’t recognize seduction when it sat in his lap and invited him upstairs? It seemed rather a stretch given the angel’s beauty, but then again clever people could be surprisingly dim at times. 

And if that was the case--a slow, dawning smile--then Crowley had a chance. He’d have to go slow, of course. He would have to be subtle at first, plant the seed, so to speak, perhaps just stop holding back all his thoughts on the angel’s beauty. Make sure Aziraphale knew Crowley was attracted to him. That was step one. And if Aziraphale was as oblivious to his own loveliness as Crowley thought, this could take centuries. Crowley smiled anyway. 

After all, Crowley was patient. And Crowley was an optimist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may feel that Aziraphale is suffering from TSL here. Some of you may feel his obliviousness is unrealistic. Let me assure you that it can and does happen. When my now-husband and I first started dating, my self-esteem was so low he could LITERALLY be inside me after spending all day hanging out and laughing and having fun and telling me how beautiful I am and I'd be like, "ok but does he like me though I can't tell". 
> 
> The book Aziraphale is reading by the fire is "The Blazing World" by Margaret Cavendish.
> 
> Also re: sex toys. Leather, wax, wood, and ivory were all really historically used as dildo material. I hope it doesn't need to be said, but...don't buy a wooden dildo?? In fact I would caution against buying a sex toy on Etsy in general. Do your research. Don't fuck yourself with a stick. I don't know what else to say. 
> 
> I went with the rosewood because I thought it would be OOC for Aziraphale to be chill with using ivory. Like he's not gonna use something an elephant had to die for.
> 
> http://patrickspedding.blogspot.com/2010/04/eighteenth-century-dildos.html
> 
> https://allthatsinteresting.com/victorian-ivory-dildo-auction


	12. Give Me One Good, Honest Kiss (and I'll be alright)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley reached out a tentative hand and placed it on Aziraphale’s cheek. “Is this all right?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: M
> 
> Title from "Nobody" by Mitski. 
> 
> I only listen to Mitski now I guess

**London, 1862 A.D.**

Something had changed in Crowley, or rather, with Crowley’s manner, over the past half century or so, and Aziraphale had yet to determine whether he was dismayed or elated by the change. He'd become more affectionate in his words, certainly, seeming always to be full of compliments.

But the main trouble was this:

Crowley had become, well… _cuddly_ , there was really no other word for it. He’d started with casual touches of Aziraphale’s hands and arms, which had, with agonizing slowness, become affectionate caresses. He’d begun to lay his head in Aziraphale’s lap while Aziraphale read, to embrace Aziraphale in greeting when they’d been parted for more than a fortnight.

It was lovely, of course, to be enfolded in Crowley’s arms. To be held tightly to that slim form, to feel Crowley’s breath near his ear and the delighted curve of Crowley’s lip on his cheek. 

But…but why? Why now? They’d been close for thousands of years, what had changed? Perhaps…perhaps Crowley had come to understand that Aziraphale wouldn’t presume to read into such touches. It was a thought that should make Aziraphale happy, or at least that he’d accomplished something, as he indeed worked hard to make sure Crowley knew that he, Aziraphale, would never be so ridiculous as to think…

So why did it feel like something precious had died, to believe that Crowley’s touches were the end to hope, and not the start?

Take tonight, for example. They had returned from a performance of _Much Ado About Nothing_ at Sadler’s Wells, and Aziraphale had mentioned that his braid had been mussed in the crush of the crowd, and so Crowley had offered to set it to rights. Not, of course, before teasing Aziraphale that the long queue in which he kept his waist-length curls was rather more than a century out of fashion. 

Aziraphale sat on the floor, Crowley on the couch behind him. Was braiding one’s hair something a lover would do? Aziraphale rather thought not. 

“How did you like the performance, my dear?”

“Mm. I thought the acting was proficient. It made me laugh.”

“But?”

“I just…would it have been so awful if Hero had invited someone to her bed?”

“Oh, my dear boy, I couldn’t agree more. I hate to say it, but really, what an awful contrivance. It’s meant to be a comedy. And I doubt Claudio hasn’t…well. He was a soldier, surely he…”

Aziraphale could hear the smile in Crowley’s voice. “Fucked someone? Aziraphale. You can say it!”

Aziraphale felt a flush creeping down his neck. Honestly, when would he learn to control his blushes?

“I’m…not sure I can.” 

“Oh, come on!” Crowley gave a Aziraphale’s hair a gentle tug, a tug that seemed to pull on something within Aziraphale’s chest as well. “Say iiiit…”

Aziraphale’s hands fluttered up in surrender as he cleared his throat. “Very well, heavens, do be careful! Surely, Claudio has…fucked someone.” 

Feeling his flush deepen, Aziraphale cleared his throat before continuing.

“Beatrice and Benedict were amusing, I thought.” Crowley _hmm_ ed, his fingers still busy with Aziraphale’s hair. “Although, whyever would one behave in such a way towards a person one cares for?”

“Stubbornness, Angel. Pride,” Crowley said, his fingers trailing behind Aziraphale’s ears and making him shiver. 

Concepts with which Aziraphale knew himself to be intimately familiar, but…

“But one can protect oneself without cruelty, surely.” 

“I don’t believe they saw their barbs as cruel. They were creating the heat they craved while..." Crowley made a dismissive sort of gesture, ”maintaining distance."

“Is it right? To be so vicious, just to relieve your feelings, even if your feelings are tender? Even if you believe your…your sparring partner seems to enjoy the blow?”

Crowley _hmm_ ed again, tying off the end of Aziraphale’s queue. 

“I see your point, Angel. _I_ certainly couldn’t take pleasure in an insult you directed at me, however witty or well-crafted.” 

Aziraphale’s heart twisted in his chest, and, as if to take the sting from a barb never spoken, leant his head against Crowley’s knee, curling his arm affectionately around Crowley’s leg. “You’ve a gentle soul, my dear.” 

Crowley’s hands slowed, and stopped on Aziraphale’s shoulders, who wondered if perhaps he oughtn’t be leaning against his friend in such an intimate way. 

He held himself very still. Thinking of distance, and heat. Stubbornness, and pride. 

Softly, he added, “Besides, we aren’t…”

But he trailed off, unsure of how to end the thought. Aware of and cursing the plaintive note his voice has held. After all. 

_Distance, Aziraphale._

But then he felt Crowley’s right hand drifting up from his shoulder.

Felt fingers trail gently, tenderly, down his neck. Heard Crowley’s voice, low and hoarse, saying “Aren’t we?”

Aziraphale shivered again, and froze. 

_Oh, God._

His mind was blank, and panicked, but his mouth was watering, his limbs filling with heat. Struggling to maintain composure, not to make himself a fool, he held himself very, very still as Crowley’s hand slid slowly onto his chest, to settle over his heart. 

“Aziraphale…sweetheart….your heart is pounding.” Crowley’s voice was a murmur, the same tones one would use to point to a nearby venomous snake; gently, so as not to startle. 

* * *

Crowley had had a Plan. 

He had thought of it as The Plan. 

The Plan had been to go slowly. To have patience. The Plan had Rules. The Plan (which included such things as, "No Snogging until 1886", and "Make Sure Aziraphale Knows He's Beautiful") said, "No Direct Discussion Of Feelings Until 1884". 

But with Aziraphale settled trustingly between his legs, Aziraphale’s skin under Crowley’s fingers…Crowley found himself unequal to following The Plan. 

He shouldn’t have asked the question in the first place. Or, perhaps he should have, but flippantly. To give Aziraphale space to laugh, to be casual, if he weren’t ready for this sort of contact. 

Still, Crowley couldn’t regret it. It had brought them here, to this moment: to Aziraphale’s head on his knee, to Aziraphale’s arm around his leg, to Aziraphale’s heart pounding beneath his palm. 

But Aziraphale didn’t answer, and Crowley couldn’t see his face. Could only feel his heartbeat. So he slid from his place on the couch, and knelt beside Aziraphale on the floor, facing him. He looked into Aziraphale’s face, and what he saw there nearly broke him. 

His voice sounded so small to his own ears as he asked, “Angel…are you afraid of me?”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide.

“No! I’m not afraid of you.” There was a pause, and silence, as Crowley gave Aziraphale the time he needed to break it. “But…But I am afraid,” and Aziraphale gave a little gasp, a small intake of breath, as though he had said too much and wanted to recall the words back into his mouth. 

Crowley had understood for some time that there was something in closeness, in intimacy, that Aziraphale feared. But he knew that if he moved slowly, if he was patient, he might someday be trusted enough to find out what it was. 

“Are you afraid of or…or do you dislike to be touched?”

Aziraphale shook his head, almost forcefully, his lips parting, breath speeding. 

Crowley reached out a tentative hand and placed it on Aziraphale’s cheek. “Is this all right?” 

(No Touching Aziraphale’s Face Until 1880.)

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and baffled, a deep blue in the candlelight. The skin beneath Crowley’s palm was soft and so, so warm as the angel nodded.

“What is it you’re afraid of, my angel?”

Perhaps the possessive was too much; Aziraphale’s eyes were beginning to go a bit red around the edges, and he looked away for the first time. 

But he tried, he tried to speak, and Crowley felt fierce and proud of Aziraphale’s bravery. 

“I…I don’t know if I can say, Crowley, I can hardly explain without…” 

He shut his mouth, and shook his head, and Crowley wrapped his arms around him, awkward as the position was. “You don’t need to explain, Angel. I’m sorry. I…I wouldn’t upset you for anything.”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley buried his face into Aziraphale’s neck, who returned the embrace more tightly than he’d held Crowley in Firenze. Crowley felt his limbs relax, breathing Aziraphale in, savoring the honesty of the moment as much as he did the warm, rose-scented skin.

Crowley opened his mouth, ready to murmur reassurances and praise, but what exactly he was going to say, he would never find out. This was because at the slight movement of Crowley’s lips against the skin of his neck, Aziraphale _whimpered_. 

The world broke apart at that sound, and then was remade around it into something new, something that dazzled Crowley with joy. 

He had to hear it again. 

His fingers clutched at Aziraphale’s shirt as he gently, tentatively, kissed the angel’s neck. Aziraphale tilted his head, baring more of his throat, and Crowley groaned and gave a decidedly less tentative kiss to that inviting skin. And another, and another, soft and slow, and Aziraphale’s breathing quickened with each kiss. 

Crowley licked, needing to _taste_ , and heard Aziraphale’s lips part on a soft gasp, and, oh, _God,_ he couldn’t keep his hands still any longer. 

He cupped Aziraphale’s jaw more tenderly than he’d ever held anything in his life, which he supposed was appropriate - he’d never before had anything so precious in his hands.

Crowley pulled his lips away from Aziraphale’s neck, and moved to straddle him. Aziraphale’s thighs were thick, and Crowley had to spread his legs wide. He bit his lip at the sensation, eyes fluttering shut, and greedy thing that he was, he wanted more. 

Wanted to be spread, naked, offering himself up wholly, for the angel to sample whatever he liked at his leisure. Wanted Aziraphale to crack him open like the spine of a book, to read him with tongue and lips and hands.

He pressed himself as closely as he could while running his fingers over Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Angel,” he said, his voice sounding raspy and desperate even to his own ears. “May I kiss you?”

Aziraphale was panting. He nodded, but looked unsure. 

“You - you needn’t, if you’d rather - rather not.”

Crowley shook his head slowly, still memorizing the feel of Aziraphale’s lips. Hell, they were soft, and pink, and Crowley wanted to see them red and glistening and wide. 

“I would very much rather, Angel, but - I’m sorry - I….I’m afraid I can’t do this quickly.”

Aziraphale shifted under him, and Crowley moaned. “Why- why not?”

_Because I’m so, so afraid that this will be the only time._

“You look lovely, my Angel. I just…just want to memorize this moment.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, lips parting on a breath, and Crowley couldn’t resist anymore, not with Aziraphale’s hands gripping his hips, and with direct permission for something he’d been dreaming of for millennia. 

He leaned in, watching the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest quicken with his breath, watched his eyes begin to close — and then he touched his mouth to Aziraphale’s and let sensation overwhelm him. 

What he would remember, later, was the feeling of relief that came over him in that moment - it was as though, every moment his lips were not touching Aziraphale’s had been its own sort of torture. 

He would remember a joy so great, it was like a release from pain. 

He drew Aziraphale’s lower lip between his own, slipped his tongue inside the angel’s mouth, and oh, God, his _taste_. Tart and sweet, like the lemon custard he loved, and how many times had Crowley watched Aziraphale wishing he could take the place of a tart he was devouring?

_I’ll be your tart_ , he thought, and a mad sort of giggle nearly escaped him. Euphoria threatened, tugging at the edges of his fraying grasp on anything that wasn’t the feel of Aziraphale’s mouth under his, of Aziraphale’s hands clutching at Crowley’s back, sweet and urgent. 

He ran his tongue over Aziraphale’s, swallowed the angel’s moan like a fine champagne. He savored the slick heat of it over and over again, moaning in turn as Aziraphale grew bolder. Aziraphale’s hands stroked Crowley’s back, gripped his hips, caressed his thighs until, _Hell_ , Crowley had started grinding down into Aziraphale’s lap, utterly shameless. 

Aziraphale’s legs were trembling, and he was panting heavily now, and his fingers dug into Crowley’s hips even harder, a delicious bite of pain, a precious reassurance that Crowley was wanted, right where he was. 

And then Crowley felt it, Aziraphale’s hard cock against his thigh as he rode the angel, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Moaning, he pressed his hand to that hardness, letting his fingers drift to the buttons of Aziraphale’s trousers. He was lost, utterly lost. 

Aziraphale broke the kiss then, and Crowley stilled his hands. 

He felt a wild fear rise up in him, and he couldn’t stop himself from pleading.

_I know I’m not enough, but…_

“I can give you this, at least,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Let me give you this.” His palm found Aziraphale’s cheek again, and Aziraphale turned his face into it. 

“Crowley, I…” Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s eyes went wide again and his body stiffened. “Crowley!” 

“What is it?” 

“Your…your hand…”

Aziraphale leaned into Crowley’s neck and inhaled deeply, a closeness that threatened to overwhelm Crowley despite the fear in Aziraphale’s manner. 

“ _Crowley_!” Aziraphale sounded truly frightened now, and he placed his palms flat against Crowley’s chest. He didn’t push, exactly, but it was not a caress. It was an instruction. 

And it was enough.

Crowley shuffled backwards over Aziraphale’s legs, kneeling in front of him as Aziraphale moved back himself, coming to sit on the sofa. 

“Crowley, listen to me. I can…smell myself on you.”

Crowley frowned, and brought his hand to his nose. It wasn’t a smell, exactly. It was only that smell was the closest human analog to what Aziraphale was describing, and he was correct. If Crowley were to walk out of this room and see another angel or demon on the street, that being would know. They would smell the grace on Crowley’s skin, the divine warmth that lingered there. And they would know the kind of contact that had occurred between Aziraphale and Crowley. 

Crowley took a breath to steady himself. “Aziraphale, honestly. What are the chances? D’you think Beelzebub is waiting in my flat? It’s alright, please don’t be afraid.”

But Aziraphale seemed not to have heard. He looked truly panicked now.

“Crowley. They will end you. If they find out, _they will end you_.”

“Aziraphale, listen—“

Aziraphale was pressing himself into the couch as though to put as much distance between himself and Crowley as possible.

“No, Crowley. Please go.”

Crowley struggled to understand what was happening, to take in what Aziraphale was saying, but all he really knew was that he was kneeling again, kneeling in front of Heaven, and deep in his bones he understood he was again to be cast out.

On legs that shook, Crowley rose up from his knees.

“Angel, please.” He said it softly, but Aziraphale only turned his head away further. 

* * *

  
Crowley walked the streets of London for hours before finally returning to his own rooms. 

There, he paced, replaying in his mind over and over what had gone wrong. 

Aziraphale had enjoyed being kissed and caressed, that was certain. Had enjoyed Crowley’s kisses, had even moaned into Crowley’s mouth…

And he hadn’t said, “Crowley, I’d rather not kiss you anymore.”

Hadn’t said, “Crowley, if Heaven finds out I’ll be trouble.”

Hadn’t even said, “Crowley, if Heaven finds out, they will end me.”

His concern had been for _Crowley_. For Crowley’s well-being.

Crowley ignored the voice in his head, the one that always tried to protect him from his own folly. Ignored the voice as it said, _t_ _his is a bit desperate, Crowley._

Instead, he thought:

_Aziraphale wants to know I’m safe? He’ll let me…let me give him pleasure if he knows I won’t be harmed?_

_So. Insurance. I need insurance._

A plan formed in his mind. He wrote a brief note to Aziraphale, and miracled it into the angel’s kitchen. He’d be in the kitchen, Crowley was sure. 

_**Meet me in St. James Park in the morning. 7 a.m.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What is that, a specter from the attic???" 
> 
> Yes this took way too long, I can't describe to you how much my brain resembled a pile of a mush for the past month and a half. I still don't know why. 
> 
> BUT mental health has improved a lot so here we are! 
> 
> And I would like to give you my solemn promise, I shall not abandon this fic. It's all planned out and outlined, I just have a bad brain sometimes. 
> 
> I have a (NSFW) twitter (@voluptatiscausa) where I plan to start doing more sneak peeks of chapters to keep me on track. Come say hi! But only if you're over 18. And are cool with me yelling about Hannibal sometimes too. 
> 
> One last thing: I've been considering changing this fic to present tense? Like going back through what I have so far? Would this be a pro or con or neutral thing for you? Let me know in the comments! 
> 
> Anyway you're all wonderful and I'm sorry for my brain.


	13. Let This Whole Town Hear Your Knuckles Crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bootlegging and aviation and new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: G
> 
> Chapter title from "Damn These Vampires" by The Mountain Goats

**Chicago, 1920 A.D.**

The Pekin only served one thing, and that was the House Cocktail. It was an awful drink, bootleg “gin” mixed with whatever juice they had on hand to mask the taste of aforementioned bootleg gin. Tasted like hellfire and burned the throat almost as badly, but, shit, it was cheap and got you drunk fast. 

But the atmosphere at the Pekin wasn’t as bleak as the description of the house beverage makes it sound. It wasn’t a place where people went to drown their despair; it was a place people went to enjoy life, to celebrate their survival here at the center of society’s tensions and violence. 

It was loud, and rambunctious, and unruly, and Crowley loved it. There was nothing genteel, no quiet, no wine, no tea. No bookshops. No tartan-clad angels rejecting him with soft-spoken affection. 

The danger in the air, the noise, the exuberance— it was all so (distracting) _fun_. 

A young woman was in front of him now, and though Crowley didn’t know her name, he recognized her. She was beautiful, and energetic, drawing everyone around her into her magnetic orbit. She’d been dancing, and smiling, and generally enjoying the hell out of herself for some time before she breathlessly ordered the house cocktail. 

Behind the bar, Crowley smiled down at her. Tiny little thing. 

“Comin’ right up!” 

“Shit, what an accent! Where’re you from?”

Crowley laughed. “Nowhere you want know about, believe you me.” 

Crowley topped the cocktail with a cherry, and the young woman took it with a positively dazzling smile. She removed the cherry and downed the drink in two gulps before chasing it with the cherry. 

She handed back the glass, and Crowley felt a twinge of concern. He hoped she wouldn’t order another. The alcohol in that glass packed a punch, and Crowley flattered himself he had a fairly high tolerance. Maybe he could convince her to wait an hour? 

But she just shook her head, let out a little ‘whoop!’ and laughed like the drink she’d swallowed was a joke.

“You have a good night, ma’am!” Crowley said, as she left a tip and began to turn back towards the dance floor. 

She gave a good natured snort and little two-finger salute before leaving the bar. 

And that was the first time Crowley met her. 

* * *

**Chicago, October 1920, A.D.**

Crowley had been directed to The Best Place For A Manicure in Chicago, and when he sat down at the table by the window, he recognized the face across from him. 

“Well, hello!” he said, not disguising his delight. 

“And a good afternoon to you! How’s my favorite bartender?”

Together they selected a polish so deep red it was almost black, and she chatted with him as she worked. 

“This color is perfect. Hot date tonight?”

“Hardly.”

“Mm. Got someone waiting for you?”

Crowley opened his mouth to laugh, to deny, but his smile faded. Behind his eyes, he was seeing a gentle face, a soft figure. 

“Ah, so it’s like that. Chasing a pretty young miss? I always tell the gentlemen who come in here to pay more attention to women their own age.”

Crowley smiled, shaking his head.

“Pretty young boy? Same advice applies,” she said, arching her brow and giving him a grin.

“Not a pretty boy, Miss Bess. A beautiful man.” He tried to counter the wistfulness in his voice. “And sadly, he’ll never see this beautiful work you’re doing,” Crowley said, nodding at his hands. 

She made a sympathetic face. “You sure about that? You seem awfully sweet, I bet he’ll come around.” 

And then he was off, telling her, well, not everything, of course, but quite a bit. About the man he’d been best friends with all his life, how sweet he was, how beautiful, and how utterly unattainable.

He felt a little silly, speaking like this to someone he barely knew. Not to mention a bit of a stereotype, treating his hard-working manicurist as though she were a personal confidante. But from the abundance of the heart and so-forth. 

She smiled and joked with him. He left with his nails looking absolutely stunning, but when he returned a few weeks later, she wasn’t there. And the next time he saw her face was nearly a year later, in the newspaper:

**BLACK GIRL AN AVIATRIX**

_Went Overseas as Manicurist—Back to Give Exhibition Flights_

He followed her career in the papers, after that. She went back to Europe for a time, for further training. Crowley read all about her from his place in Chicago aiding in the noble effort to keep the Americans in a steady supply of (admittedly subpar) alcohol. It was quite fun at times, the plotting and the sneaking. Crowley was rather good at it. And Hell seemed pleased with the law-breaking and general chaos involved in boot-legging. 

* * *

**Los Angeles - March 1923 A.D.**

The day Crowley felt that Bessie Coleman became his friend was the day he visited her in the hospital. She looked like hell, to be perfectly frank, and he told her so, as he set her bouquet of flowers on the bedside table. 

“Still, glad to see you’re alive.”

She snorted, then winced. Her face was still rather swollen, though the accident had happened over a week ago.

“What are you doing here?”, she said, with more curiosity than Crowley thought he’d be able to muster in such a state. Her breathing sounded labored and rather painful. 

“Ah, you remember me! Lovely. Listen, I came here with a business proposition.” He looked over his shoulder before leaning forward. 

“No,” she said, as he opened his mouth.

“No?”

“No, I’m not going to fly smuggled Canadian alcohol across the border for you.”

“Oh, Bess, come on! You could make a _fortune_.”

“I could, yes. But that’s not why I fly. Besides,” she added, “What makes you think I even want to fly again? Look at me.”

Crowley leaned back and took in her appearance. Her leg in a cast, from ankle to hip. Stitches and swelling all over her face. He pulled a newspaper clipping from his breast pocket and cleared his throat before reading aloud in an atrocious approximation of an American accent:

“Despite suffering a broken leg, three broken ribs, and too many cuts and bruises to count, Miss Coleman’s main concern following the crash seems to be that she disappointed her supporters who had lined up to see her. To them, she sends a message: ‘Tell them that as soon as I can walk, I’m going to fly!'” He gave her a significant look over his glasses, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Did you also see the article that suggested the crash was a punishment for my sin of daring to fly?” 

“Yes, how dare you. Pray for forgiveness, or the flames of Hell shall surely claim you.” Crowley’s voice was deadpan.

“The point is. No smuggling. I’m going to start an aviation school. And to be honest with you, smuggling doesn’t sound like as much fun as doing barrel rolls and loop-the-loops. I’ll pass.” 

Crowley smiled, and gave up. He very much enjoyed tempting humans to do things they wanted to do, but it was clear Bess didn’t want to be a smuggler. Though he would always maintain, she’d have been wonderful at it. 

* * *

Crowley took her out to dinner after her first flight upon being released from the hospital. To celebrate. It was easy, after that. They made each other laugh, and seeing her fly was always a joy. They’d go out for meals, take walks, go drinking and dancing. Bess would do his nails and they’d look wonderful. Crowley would do her nails, and at first they looked atrocious. But she was patient with him, and taught him the technique, and she admitted eventually that she wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen in public with a manicure he’d given her. 

It was wonderful, for a while, to have a friend. 

One evening, sitting at her table, manicures given and (smuggled) brandy being steadily consumed, Bessie asked about Aziraphale. Asked about the beautiful man he’d told her about that first time she’d done his nails, and he didn’t know what to say. 

There wasn’t a way to explain the distance that lay between himself and Aziraphale without giving her the truth. And Crowley was lonely. There could be a certain amount of fun to blending in with humans, but there were times when the distance between himself and all other living things became heavy. 

“I’m a demon. He’s an angel.” Crowley pillowed his head on his arms, which were resting on the table.

Bessie snorted. 

“I don’t think I like him very much, if _that’s_ how he makes you feel.”

“No, I mean it…I mean it literally. I’m a demon. As in, I work for Hell. Satan’s my boss, well, my boss’s boss, I s’pose…” He sighed at the look on her face. “All right, I’ll prove it.”

He manifested his wings. 

Bessie looked at them, her eyes slowly traveling their length. Then she squinted suspiciously at the bottle of liquor. Then she looked back at Crowley. 

“Shit.”

“I’ll leave if you ask me to, Bess. I don’t want to scare you.”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “That’s alright. Can I…”

She was reaching out her hand. Crowley kept his head on his arms, just moving one wing to meet her. She stroked one dark feather, and Crowley’s wings gave an involuntarily ruffle in response. 

“Shit.”

“Mm.”

“And your eyes?”

He took off his glasses. “Mm.” 

“Well. Fuck me.” 

There were few moments of silence as Bessie again inspected the liquor bottle before shrugging and refilling both her and Crowley’s tumblers.

“So you see, I’m not being metaphorical. He’s too good for me. He’s an _actual_ angel. Well. A principality, technically, but, but with the wings, and the halo, and he could have a harp if he wanted to. He’s good, and I’m evil.”

Bessie gave another snort.

“No, you’re not.” 

“Mm, fairly sure I am.” He sat up, gave an exaggerated blink, flapped his wings. “Demon, after all.” 

She squinted, set down her glass, and furrowed her brow as though trying to puzzle something out through a drunken haze. It was rather adorable. 

“Ok, give me a moment, try to stay with me here. You’re…you’re a demon, yes, that’s what you _are_ , but tell me about what you _do_.” 

“Professional tempter.”

“And what does that involve?”

“Mm…encouraging humans to cause chaos, I suppose.” 

Bessie looked up sharply. 

“Were you in Chicago four years ago?”

Crowley shuddered. 

“Red Summer? Satan, no.”

“So not that kind of chaos?”

Crowley shook his head. “Not me, at least. Could have been, you know. Co-workers. But I’ve not taste for that sort of thing.”

“All right. Then, give me an example.”

“Tried to tempt you, once. When I asked you to be a smuggler.”

She laughed. “All you did was ask!”

“Well, and I told you you’d be rich.”

“But then you gave up!”

“You said you didn’t want to! And you can’t tempt someone to do something they don’t want to do in the first place. All I do is…nudge, really.”

“You’re telling me that you tell people to do things they already want to do.”

“Basically, yes.”

“And that makes you evil.”

“I’m sensing some incredulity, here.”

“Very perceptive.”

* * *

After that night, Crowley spent more time with Bess. He’d make her dinner. Something simple, a fry-up, meat and veg. And they’d drink and talk. He’d tell her stories, not just about Aziraphale. He had a near-endless supply of shenanigans to speak of, of course. (Though, he never told her about Eden. Bess’s mother had been a baptist, after all, and there were limits.) 

He loved to see her tipsy and laughing. It was such a wonderful thing, to have someone to speak to like this, someone who knew who and what he was and still cared for him. Still felt safe with him. 

And it delighted him to hear about her life, as well. Her time in France, how often she lied about her age, outsmarting the foreman who bought the cotton her family picked. 

One night after the papers gave her a nickname, he said, “I knew another Queen Bess, you know.” 

“Did you now? The Virgin Queen?” 

Crowley snorted. Sometimes he felt he and Bessie communicated mostly via snorts of varying timbres.

“So she wasn’t? Really?” 

Crowley studied the swirls left in his wine glass.

“Not what ‘virgin’ used to mean, you know,” he said, a little dreamily. “Used to mean…mm…’one-in-herself’. ‘Whole-in-herself’. And both the Queens Bess…certainly fit that definition.” He flashed Bessie a wink. “Doesn’t matter what they do or did or don’t do or didn’t do with their bodies.” 

Bessie’s smile was small, and gentle. Pensive, not at all the brave and dazzling thing she flashed before climbing into the cockpit. The one that made her top lip thin against her teeth, making her look a little mischievous. 

“I do feel that,” she responded. “Whole in myself. What about you, Crowley? Are you whole in yourself?”

And, as Bess would say: “well, shit.” 

Crowley blew air heavily out his nose, and leaned back against the sofa. 

“Sometimes?” 

“You’re missing him.”

“Mm.” 

“You don’t feel whole without him?” 

“No, Bess. I don’t think I do.”

“I’m not sure that’s…I’m not sure that’s the best thing for you. No matter how good a man, or being, or whatever, he is.” 

“I agree, as it happens. ’S a new feeling, too. It’s not the first time we’ve been apart for years, you know. And I always missed him, but this feels different.” 

“Why?”

“Well. We…we kissed.” Bessie sat up straighter. “And then we fought.”

“What did you fight about? About the kissing? What it that bad?”

“No, the kiss was…glorious, actually. We fought because he was worried Hell would find out. About us. But the way he said it…” Bess cocked her head as Crowley trailed off. He cleared his throat, made himself say it. 

“He said; “If they found out we’d been fraternizing.’”

Bess hissed in a breath. 

“Mm. It made me feel so _small_ , Bess. It seemed such a trivial word, for something that had meant so much to me. And so I told him, ‘I have plenty of other people to fraternize with. I don’t need you.”

“You said it to hurt him.”

Crowley nodded, a little ashamed. 

“Do you think it worked?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if the thought of me with others hurts him. I don’t even know if he misses me.”

“Well, from what you’ve told me I think we can be fairly certain he does miss you. Terribly. But… you told him you didn’t need him because you had plenty of others. What about not needing anybody? What about being whole-in-yourself?” 

“How _can_ I be whole-in-myself? I’m not _good_ , Bess. I’m not…I just don’t think I’m enough.” To his horror, Crowley’s voice broke a little on the last word. 

He hadn’t dared, until then, to voice the sentiment that had been growing like mold in his chest since Rome. Since the day his friendship with Aziraphale really took root, the most beautiful rose growing among that creeping blackness. 

They’d spent weeks together, and laughed together, bathed together, drank together. It didn’t pull Crowley out of his melancholy, but it meant he wasn’t alone with it, and that had made all the difference. Crowley couldn’t help but feel, that in all the millennia since, he had more or less followed Aziraphale about like some sort of demonic baby duck. Sultry kisses not withstanding, Crowley had always been the one to put out a hand to Aziraphale. To make plans. To put himself in Aziraphale’s space. And so the mold grew. 

“Sometimes I think he only ever tolerated me.” Tears were in his eyes. 

“Crowley.” Bessie’s arms were around his shoulders, pulling him into a warm embrace. “I can promise you, no one lucky enough to know you has ever merely tolerated you.”

Those words were weapons aimed at the mold, of course, but they hurt Crowley as well, as though the mold had become a part of him. There was an ache in his chest, and such longing to believe her words. And finally, there it was, there was the sob that had lodged inside his throat when Aziraphale had walked away from him in 1862. It had never left, had made a home there, had been blocking his airways for so many years. And at Bessie’s words, the sob leapt out of his mouth as if scalded, and it was a horrible, horrible sound. 

He gripped Bessie’s sleeves, tears soaking her shirt, her pretty blouse, oh, _Hell_ , her wonderful tailoring, but Crowley couldn’t seem to move. His entire body was overtaken by a monumental grief that he hadn’t allowed himself to express. 

Bessie, who was about as close to an angel as a human could get as far as Crowley was concerned, just held him, and rocked him slowly. 

“You can’t bear to think you’re an obligation to someone you love.” She said it so sadly, and Crowley could only nod, helpless, hearing it said out loud. 

_An obligation._

That’s how he felt, sometimes, to the angel he loved. And for a being who had been told he wasn’t pure enough for Heaven, wasn’t evil enough for Hell, had no real home here on Earth…it was as Bessie had said. 

Unbearable. 

He hadn’t even been able to stay conscious, at first. He’d slept for the rest of the century. He might have slept longer, but for the dreams. Sometimes he thought the dreams were what kept him asleep, and sometimes he thought escaping the dreams was the only good reason he had to wake up. 

He dreamt, of course, of Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale pushing him up against a wall, holding Crowley’s hands above his head. Then, taking both Crowley’s wrists in one hand, so he can keep Crowley pinned while he unbuttons Crowley’s shirt, running a rough hand over Crowley’s ribs. Crowley panting, Aziraphale kissing his neck, his jaw, slipping his fingers into Crowley’s waistband.

Aziraphale, whispering, “ _I love you, I love you, I love you_ …”

  
When the century turned, Crowley finally woke up for good. He couldn’t take it anymore; couldn’t take the dreams, couldn’t take the proximity to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

It was time to leave. 

So he went to Chicago, and met Bessie. Bessie, who was brave and funny and so very _strong_. 

“How do you do it, Bess?”

“Hm?”

“How do you manage it? Being whole-in-yourself?”

Bessie sighed.

“Listen, Crowley. People say a lot of things about me. They say I’m opportunistic, like it’s a bad thing. They say my flying style is too flamboyant, like I should be doing something more demure while I’m _flying a goddamn plane_. They say I can’t get along with my managers, that I alienate the media, that I’m difficult to work with, whatever that means. And that’s after being told, again and again, that I would never learn to fly in the first place, because I’m Black, and a woman.”

She tightened her arms around him. 

“It’s hard, after being told that you aren’t enough, or that you’re too much…those voices are so _loud_ , Crowley. But…I remember my mama, reading to me. I remember how I was better at math than anyone, including the teachers, at every school I’ve attended. And I make _my_ voice louder. I make _my_ opinion the most important. And I say, again and again: ‘I am so, so much more than simply _enough_.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hey what's your excuse this time for a month between updates??"
> 
> Well I had most of a chapter written where Crowley met Amelia Earhart. I thought the letter she wrote to George Putnam before their marriage was an interesting place to start for a conversation about love. And THEN I saw a Drunk History about Bessie Coleman, who I had never even HEARD OF, and I was like, WELP SORRY EVERYONE TIME TO START OVER and I had to read a biography and....also I'm not a professional I'm just a potato who writes for fun. 
> 
> A lot of my information comes from the biography "Queen Bess: Daredevil Aviator" by Doris L. Rich. There are a lot of fascinating details in her life that I couldn't work in, but the overall impression I got was a person of incredible resilience who plowed through obstacles like they weren't even there. 
> 
> I also learned about the Red Summer and Chicago's week-long race riot in 1919, something I had never heard of until this book. So, thanks, American education, great job. I nearly had Bessie and Crowley meet during the riots, but I didn't want to fall into a "white savior" trope, so I just left it as a mention. 
> 
> Watch the Drunk History on Bessie Coleman, if you can.
> 
> The first newspaper article you see was a real headline, with the exception that they did not use the word "Black". 
> 
> "As soon as I can walk I will fly" is a real quote. There was also really speculation that the 1923 crash was her own fault for the sin of flying.


	14. Happy Came To Visit Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinks during the London Blitz.
> 
> Chapter rating: M (or E?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I said in previous notes about Aziraphale's self-esteem applies here. Once again, none of this is a commentary on Aziraphale's appearance. The way he sees himself in this fic is fully lifted from my own experience--it's not how I see the actor or the character! 
> 
> Chapter title from "Happy" by Mitski. Surprising...no one.

**London, 1941 A.D.**

The entire evening, Aziraphale reflected, had been rather surreal. For one thing, the blacked out windows of the cabaret were the only reminder that all was not normal outside its doors. Otherwise, nothing was out of place. The small, dim lamps spaced along the bar where he sat with Crowley, the glass of Syrah in his hand. The quiet murmur of conversation from the round tables around the dance floor, the jazzy standards from the evening’s entertainer sung in smokey tones. 

_No one to talk with, all by myself_  
_No one to walk with, but I’m happy on the shelf…_

There was a lightheartedness to the atmosphere, but there was nothing frantic in it. It was oddly calm, not at all how Aziraphale would have expected humans to behave with the specter of death hanging about them for days on end. 

And then, of course, there was Crowley.

Sitting beside Aziraphale, sipping his scotch, laughing and chatting as though they had never quarreled, as though Aziraphale had never panicked. 

His hair was short, and he was looking terribly debonair in his suit and tie. And he was smiling. 

_Ain’t misbehavin’,_  
_Savin’ all my love for you…_

Despite the circumstances of their last parting, Aziraphale couldn’t keep from smiling as well, from leaning into the space between himself and Crowley. 

He’d laughed at himself right along with Crowley at the story of how he’d come to be in that church, a self-deprecating “I know!” in response to Crowley’s, “I can’t believe you tried to be a _spy_!” 

Had been so thrilled to listen to Crowley’s account of their time apart. Of course, Aziraphale couldn’t say that he’d thought of Crowley every day. Couldn’t tell him that he fell asleep every night thinking of how Crowley’s lips tasted, how Crowley’s hips had felt in his hands, the heat of Crowley’s tongue. Couldn’t tell him that he woke every morning with an ache in his heart, thinking of the look on Crowley’s face in the park the next morning. That pale early morning light had been pitiless. It had softened nothing, hid nothing, and Aziraphale had looked into the face of the being he loved and seen with perfect clarity the flinch, the hurt that he, Aziraphale, had put there. ( _Fraternizing?!_ ) 

_I know for certain the one I love,_  
_I’m through with flirtin’, it’s just you I’m thinkin’ of…_

He couldn’t say any of that. Crowley would probably think he was being silly; the demon had obviously forgotten. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t bring it up, wouldn’t reveal how he’d been affected by a scene Crowley had no doubt found simply tiresome. The melodrama of the inexperienced. 

So instead, he gave Crowley a sheepish smile. “Thank you, again. I feel as though you’re forever having to rescue me.”

_Don’t go nowhere, what do I care?_  
_Your kisses are worth waitin’ for,_  
_Believe me…_

Crowley’s smile grew softer, and he opened his mouth to reply. He was interrupted when a stranger approached. Aziraphale took in their appearance; wavy blond hair slicked back from their head, suspenders. Tall, muscled. Painted lips, fine features.

 _Very_ fine features, to be truthful. Between this person and Crowley, Aziraphale felt out of place before they even spoke. It was as though he’d wandered into a meeting of The Society for Stunningly Attractive People, and the polite thing to do would be to excuse himself. _So sorry, wrong room, I’ll take myself off right away…_

“Hullo, ginger. Can I buy you a drink?” Accompanied by a wink, if you please. Awfully cheeky.

“Can you not tell I’m here with someone?” Crowley’s voice would have sounded conversational to a stranger, but Aziraphale could hear the coldness in it. 

“It’s fine, Crowley.” Aziraphale murmured. “I’ll leave you to it.” He mustered a smile and turned, but Crowley had grabbed at his sleeve. 

“Angel…where are you going?”

The stranger, oh, all right, the _Adonis_ who had approached Crowley let the smile drop from their face. 

“Oh I’m sorry, didn’t realize you were an item. I assumed…” They trailed off, cleared their throat. “Sorry.” Walked away. 

Crowley looked genuinely confused, and Aziraphale knew he would have to explain.

“They assumed what?”

“Assumed we weren’t together.”

“Why? We were…we were sitting so close.”

“Crowley, please. It’s alright, I’ll leave. I’ve no wish to make a fool of myself.” Aziraphale stood, sliding off his bar stool, and Crowley stood as well.

“Leave? Why on earth…No.” Crowley stepped close, held Aziraphale by the arms. “And what do you mean make a fool of yourself?”

Aziraphale squared his shoulders, kept his voice steady and reasonable. If he had to explain this, if Crowley insisted on hearing the words, he would do it with dignity. He would not beg. He would _not_. 

“Crowley, look at yourself. You know that when people see us together, it’s nowhere in their minds that we we could possibly be a couple. If they think it, they’re thinking I must have money.”

Crowley actually looked down at himself, confusion clear on his face. But he kept his hold on Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“Let me go, Crowley. You don’t need to sit here drinking with me. Take that beautiful person home. I’ll understand, and I’ll still be here to drink with tomorrow. It’s not as though I have expectations to disappoint.”

He swallowed, and smiled as best as he was able, but found he had to tear off a piece of his heart and hand it to Crowley to protect the whole. 

“Just…don’t tell me about it. That’s all I ask.”

Crowley looked so baffled, and Aziraphale felt the tears spill down his cheeks despite his best efforts. His face burned thinking how ridiculous this must look to the people around them. He wanted to shout to them, _it’s not what you think, I know, I haven’t been breaking my heart over him…how silly would I have to be to dream…_

“Aziraphale, what in the Hell are you saying?”

Crowley sounded incredulous, and Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t be able to explain it. Wouldn’t be able to tell him how oddly juvenile he always felt next to his friend, how simple, how sexless.

“As I said,” he breathed in. “I’ve no wish to make a fool of myself.” Smiled through his tears. 

Crowley’s usual look of careless indolence was gone from his face. In its place was something furious and intent. Utterly real, and utterly thrilling. Aziraphale took deep breaths to calm himself, tried to control his responses and maintain a hold on his dignity as Crowley walked Aziraphale back until they were pressed up against the bar.

“So you don’t think you tempt me?” the demon said, lips next to Aziraphale’s ear. “Is that what you’re on about? And these people don’t think you could tempt me?”

Crowley was pressing his body to Aziraphale’s in a way the angel had scarcely allowed himself to dream about; he had one of his legs between Aziraphale’s own, had bent his knee so his thigh was pressing into Aziraphale’s cock.

“Crowley, what are you -“

“Do you want to know what _I_ think?” The demon’s voice was husky, dark. Angry. Hot breath on Aziraphale’s ear, soft hair caressing his face, oh, God, he could scarcely think.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hair at the nape of his neck and pulled roughly, back and to the side, so that Aziraphale gave a small cry as his head tilted, exposing his neck. 

And then, _Holy God_ , Crowley licked a slow path from Aziraphale’s shoulder, up his neck, to his ear. The angel shuddered and let out a low moan. Crowley’s breath was warm and ticklish as he pulled Aziraphale’s earlobe into his mouth, licking, sucking gently before releasing it. Aziraphale struggled to keep his eyes open, struggled just to stay on his feet as his knees turned to water. Crowley supported his weight.

“I think I’m going to have you, Aziraphale.” Crowley was murmuring in his ear, low and seductive, words that broke Aziraphale’s heart because they couldn’t possibly be true, and it wasn’t fair. “I think I’m going to take you right here, right now, against this bar. I think I’ll show you all the things I’m _tempted_ to do every time I look at you.”

Aziraphale was panting, helpless, as Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him even closer. His other hand was still at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, and he tugged the hair slightly, making the angel whimper. 

“ _Aziraphale_ —“

Crowley’s voice sounded as desperate now as Aziraphale felt as the demon kissed the angel’s lips. Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself; he gasped into Crowley’s mouth, trying to catch his breath, but his desire was overwhelming his pride. He moaned again at the taste of Crowley’s tongue; heat and booze and oh, God, _yes_ , cinnamon.

Gripping Crowley’s lapels, he was grateful for the press of the demon’s body against his own, for the sharp edge of the bar in his back, keeping him on his feet. He slid his tongue against Crowley’s, tentatively, and Crowley’s arms tightened deliciously around him. Crowley brought his hand to cup Aziraphale’s face, pulled away slightly. His astonishingly red lips hung slightly open as he looked into Aziraphale’s eyes and pressed his hips with slow deliberation to the angel’s, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut on a groan as he felt Aziraphale’s hardness against his own. 

Aziraphale watched Crowley take a breath. “Or, better yet-“ Crowley glanced to the side door near the bar. “I’ll get on my knees for you in the filthy alleyway.” Crowley’s eyes were hot and intent on Aziraphale’s own, and Aziraphale could scarcely stand the intimacy of it, the vulnerability of looking into Crowley’s eyes and hearing those words. “Would you like that?” 

Crowley didn’t wait for an answer; Aziraphale didn’t think he would have been able to speak even if he had known what to say. He could barely breathe. To the hoots and whistles of everyone in the bar, Crowley pulled Aziraphale across the dance floor and out a side door into an alley.

* * *

They didn’t make it far. The door swung shut behind them and Crowley turned, searching the angel’s face as he pushed him against the brick wall. Aziraphale’s eyelids were heavy, lips parted and swollen. The angel was panting, he was so beautiful, and Crowley leaned in for another glorious kiss. Another taste of Aziraphale, sharp and sweet.

“Please, Crowley!” Aziraphale’s hand came up between them, palm flat against Crowley’s chest. “There’s no one out here, you can drop the charade.”

Crowley was struggling to keep up, struggling to think with Aziraphale’s face so close. The light and joy of him, inches from Crowley’s lips. “Charade? What are you talking…”

“Thank you, for salvaging my pride,” the angel said acidly. “But Crowley-“ Aziraphale’s voice broke as Crowley traced his lips with a finger, still leaning in close. Aziraphale was trembling, had tears in his eyes. “Crowley, _please_ , I can’t bear it. I don’t want your pity.”

 _Pity?_

Dizzy with desire, Crowley leaned in, trapping Aziraphale against the brick, nuzzling along the angel’s neck, wanting to soothe, murmuring in his ear. 

“No? I want yours.”

“Wha—what?” The breathlessness in the angel’s voice was delicious. 

“I want your pity, Aziraphale. If that’s all I can have from you, I will take it, with both hands.” Crowley felt his heart pounding in his throat and his fingers shook as he unbuttoned Aziraphale’s trousers and undid the fly. “Take pity on me, Angel.” He heard a sweet gasp, felt the angel’s knees buckle as he took Aziraphale’s cock in a gentle grip. 

He stroked the angel, slow and gentle. Nuzzled into his neck, breaths heavy. “Please…let me taste you.” And Crowley sank to his knees as he had promised, mouth watering. 

He felt, keenly, the supplication of the gesture. He was begging, he knew, but he felt no shame. The plea in his words, in his posture, it was no more than the truth; how could he regret it? He was on his knees to receive a sacrament, not a punishment. He looked up at Aziraphale as he knelt. “Please,” he repeated, letting the hot breath of the word drift over the angel’s cock. 

Aziraphale was was so, so hard in Crowley’s hand, lips wet from Crowley’s kisses, but Crowley needed to hear the words. Needed to know this was wanted. He waited, on his knees, and he would have prayed if he remembered how. Finally, Aziraphale choked out, “Only…only if you _want_ to—“ and Crowley groaned as he took Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth. Swallowed the length of him down, savoring the heat and the smoothness and the salt of his skin. Savored too Aziraphale’s sharp cry of pleasure. 

How many times had he laid alone in his bed, hand wrapped around himself, imagining this moment? He ought not to have tried; his fantasies had not touched the reality. The feel of Aziraphale in his mouth, the closeness of it; that he knew now how the angel tasted, knew the small sounds he made when Crowley licked, slowly, around the crown.

He still did not understand quite why Aziraphale had been so hesitant, but he understood that the angel had placed a great deal of trust in his hands in allowing this. Crowley was desperate to prove himself worthy of it. 

He took Aziraphale deep into his throat, leaving his hands free to play along the angel’s hips and stomach, to caress his thighs. He wished he could have removed Aziraphale’s pants entirely, to feel the heat of his skin, the tremble of his muscles. He wanted to take this slowly, to pleasure Aziraphale out of his mind. Make him wild. But Aziraphale was subtly spreading his legs, a gentle tilt to his hips, fingers curling into Crowley’s hair, and Crowley feared he would spend in his trousers like a human adolescent if this went on much longer. Too, he wanted the proof of Aziraphale’s pleasure in his mouth, wanted it more than hope of heaven. So he hollowed his cheeks, sucking and savoring both the taste and the sound of the low, needy moans Aziraphale was making, until -

“Crowley, _Crowley_ , darling, I’m—I’m going to — please, _don’t stop_ , darling, my darling,—“

They were the first words Aziraphale had said since Crowley had begun to pleasure him, and Crowley’s heart was a sharp ache in his chest. 

_Darling…!_

_Angel, my love, say it again—_

But there were no more words, only the sound of Aziraphale’s pleading whimpers as he came in hot, delicious spurts down Crowley’s throat. Crowley groaned, licking Aziraphale clean and savoring the taste. He pulled off slowly, but stayed where he was. Leant his head on Aziraphale’s thigh, the edge taken off his desperation. He wanted more, so much more. To take Aziraphale inside himself, to know the heat of Aziraphale’s body in other ways, to feel sweat-slicked skin against his own. 

But if this was all he would be given, he knew at least the taste of Aziraphale’s pleasure. Had heard the angel’s moans ringing in his ears.

For long moments, there was silence save for the sounds of panting. Aziraphale spoke first.

“Crowley?” Crowley looked up, knees aching, tears in his eyes, Aziraphale on his tongue. “Would you take me home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you read 37k of a slow burn without any fuckin'? 
> 
> You may be entitled to a chapter with some fuckin'.


	15. Everything I've Had, But Couldn't Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thought of you as my mountaintop  
> Thought of you as my peak  
> Thought of you as everything I've had, but couldn't keep
> 
> -Pale Blue Eyes, The Velvet Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: E

**London, 1941 A.D.**

Crowley rose from his knees, but stayed standing close. He set the angel’s clothes to rights, leaned in to rest their foreheads together. With a soft grip on the angel’s lapels, he exhaled slowly. 

“Yes, sweetheart. I can do that.” His voice was gravelly, his throat a bit sore.

He took Aziraphale’s hand, and they began the short walk to the Bentley. Crowley took deep breaths, focusing on the feel of Aziraphale’s hand in his. This could have been perfect; a nighttime stroll, hand in hand with the being he loved, but for the turmoil in his heart. 

Aziraphale was being so _quiet_ , and Crowley wasn’t sure what to say. If silence was what was needed, or reassurance? 

He opened the passenger side door, reluctantly letting go of the hand he held as Aziraphale climbed in. When Crowley had settled himself in the driver’s seat and started the engine, he realized there was a question he needed to ask. 

“Angel, when you said ‘home’, did you mean…did you mean the bookshop, or…?”

Aziraphale looked over at him, eyes wide, and slowly shook his head.

Crowley nodded, clearing his throat. He leaned into the space between them, and stroked Aziraphale’s cheek. Breathed him in, gave him another kiss. It was different, this time.

Softer. 

Sweeter. 

He began to drive. 

It seemed that in the few days since Crowley had last made this drive, the streets had conspired to add some extra distance. Or perhaps time had slowed. 

It seemed an eternity, a word Crowley did not use lightly, before they reached his flat. When he killed the engine, the silence in the car grew louder. 

A journey of several years up an unending flight of stairs followed, Aziraphale trailing behind him, hand in his. 

And then the door closed behind them, and Crowley found he scarcely knew what to do. Aziraphale was standing in his flat, having barely said a word since the request to be taken home. _Home_ , meaning, _to Crowley’s_. And he still had that wide-eyed, slightly stunned look he’d been wearing since the walk to the car. Lips parted, expression almost vague.

Crowley set his keys down and took Aziraphale’s hat off his head, placed it on the hat rack next to his own. 

Oh, Hell. That sight shouldn’t have shifted something inside him, something he hadn’t known was out of place until it had been set to rights. 

He stepped in close again, cupped Aziraphale’s soft cheek.

“Sweetheart, are you alright?”

Aziraphale nodded and reached out tentatively, taking a hold of Crowley’s lapels, and Crowley breathed a little easier. 

“Will you say something?” 

Aziraphale nodded, but didn’t speak. Crowley laughed softly, and Aziraphale smiled sheepishly, and if there was any piece of Crowley’s heart that hadn’t belonged to Aziraphale before that moment, it joined its fellows now. 

Crowley took a shaky breath and started to unknot Aziraphale’s bow tie, and the angel’s hands hovered near Crowley’s, but did not stop him. 

Crowley worked his way through Aziraphale’s buttons, first the vest and then the crisp white shirt beneath. Slowing at the sight of Aziraphale’s bare torso, he exhaled heavily and pushed the layers down over Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale’s clothes fell the floor with a soft _whump_ , a pile of fawn and white.

“Oh, Angel…”

It had been so long since he had seen this, seen Aziraphale’s beautiful body. And when was the last time he had touched…? Crowley couldn’t help it; he sank to his knees again, kissing Aziraphale’s skin as he fell, feeling the bruises and the damp from the alley anew. 

He wanted Aziraphale in his mouth again; wanted to take his time, use all his tricks, make sure the angel understand what he was giving up when he walked away. Then maybe he would come back, from time to time. Allow Crowley this intimacy in exchange for the pleasure. 

But Aziraphale dropped, gracefully, to kneel on the floor, his fingers now fluttering near the neckline of Crowley's shirt. 

"Crowley…what about you?"

Crowley ran his hands along Aziraphale's thighs, itching to get beneath the fabric, to feel the angel's skin. His eyes fluttered shut, breath catching as Aziraphale's fingers lightly touched his face, tracing his jawline. 

"What--what about me, angel?"

"What do you want?"

"I want-- _Hell_ , I want to kiss you. Will you--would you kiss me? Please?"

"You want that?"

"Yes, Angel, please--" 

_This_ was torment, _this_ was Hell, to feel Aziraphale in his hands, feel Aziraphale's breath and fingers grazing his lips, and for the kiss to never come. 

"Why?" Aziraphale asked, not unkindly. Sounding genuinely curious.

Crowley whimpered, his body canting forward, lips parting. A nightmare that could become a dream, if he could only reach for it. 

"Heavens, is this real?” Aziraphale said, in tones almost of wonder. “This look on your face?” 

“What look, sweetheart?” Running his hands up and down Aziraphale’s arms, his bare skin, all roses and cream, trying to breathe, _breathe_ , Crowley, breathe…

Aziraphale only touched his face, shaking his head, and so Crowley continued. 

“What are you seeing, Angel? Need? Desire?—Lust?”

Crowley’s voice was husky and low, and Aziraphale closed his eyes with a shudder at the last word. 

“ _Kissss me_ , Aziraphale—“ 

It was practically a sob, and probably the worst moment for him to hiss, but he couldn't help it, and anyway it turned into a groan as Aziraphale’s lips finally, finally met his. 

They knelt on the floor together for long moments, trading kisses, learning each other. Soft fingers traced Crowley’s jaw, skittered down his throat. He licked gently, slowly, into Aziraphale’s mouth, tasting wine and sweetness and tears. Crowley felt warmth spreading through his throat, his chest, his limbs as his anxiety melted away into purest, molten need.

And then Aziraphale moved forward to straddle him, there on the floor, and began to unbutton his shirt, and Crowley could do nothing but pant and tremble and want. 

It was an awkward position, with Crowley’s legs folded under himself, but it brought their chests together as Aziraphale tugged Crowley’s shirt off, hands sticking momentarily in the cuffs. When their bare skin touched, Crowley let out a small, needy gasp, and Aziraphale gripped his naked shoulders. 

The angel held eye contact as he pushed away, leaving Crowley’s lap, and Crowley felt a dizzying moment of fear. But Aziraphale held his hand out when he stood, and Crowley took it. Took Aziraphale’s hand and then took the lead, guiding Aziraphale to his bedroom. 

He flicked his fingers towards the oil lamp he kept by his bed, igniting its soft glow. He turned to Aziraphale and drew him in close. Crowley ran his fingers reverently over the angel’s back with slow strokes as they kissed. Felt the roundness of his shoulders, the dip of his spine. Touched the endearing dimples in the small of his back with gentle fingertips. 

He thought he could happily stand here forever, kissing Aziraphale. Tasting him, breathing him in, holding him, until his legs gave out or the world crumbled. And then he would hold Aziraphale from his knees, or in the empty void of space. 

Aziraphale’s warm fingers slid down Crowley’s chest and came to rest on the fly of his trousers. Crowley’s heart pounded in his chest. He held Aziraphale’s face in his hand, unsure of what to say, his mind and heart an incoherent clamor.

 _Angel, Angel, Angel_ —

Aziraphale opened Crowley’s fly, and Crowley experienced the next several minutes in stuttered images. His fingers tightening around Aziraphale’s biceps; tugging off Aziraphale’s own trousers while the angel sat on the bed; and then the sight of Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s pillow, the gold and silver of his curls in Crowley’s bed shattering Crowley’s composure.

He settled himself on top of Aziraphale, body to body, heart to heart, and kissed him. Kissed Aziraphale until his skin had warmed Crowley’s own, kissed him until they were both breathless.

When they broke apart, Aziraphale spoke, sounding winded and a bit dazed. 

“Crowley…could you…would you…”

Crowley waited, expectant and ready. Prepared to give Aziraphale anything. But Aziraphale only blushed more deeply into the silence, and turned his face away. 

“Oh, Crowley, don’t…please don’t make me say it.”

“Angel you know, you must know, I’ll give you anything. Anything. It’s only, I can’t exactly guess, can I, sweetheart?”

“Darling I—I feel so…exposed. You must think it’s silly, it’s not the first time you’ve seen me…seen me nude, after all—“

“It’s not silly, Angel. Not at all.” Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s, stroked his face. “We can put some clothes back on, if you’d like. We can just kiss. We can just talk. I can make you tea and miracle up a cake.” Aziraphale’s smile was soft and still a little embarrassed as he shook his head, but he turned to look back at Crowley. He was visibly gathering his courage as though it had been scattered around the room, in pieces, along with his clothing. 

“No, I like this. I _want_ this,” and Crowley bit back a whimper at those words. “Perhaps, perhaps you could dim the lights a bit?”

Crowley did so with another flick of his fingers, still pressed body to body with Aziraphale, then manifested his wings. He curled them into a canopy above them, and it cast Aziraphale into shadow, dappling his skin as though they were in a grove of trees under the moon. 

_Hell_ , he was beautiful. And as he saw the gentling of the light, he took a deep breath, and smiled up at Crowley, and Crowley could only kiss him again.

Aziraphale reached up and ran his fingers through Crowley’s feather’s. Crowley shuddered, and his hips rocked into Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale gave a little gasp. “Lovely, my dear,” he murmured. “So lovely.”

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, kissing that soft skin and rocking his hips. Fuck, Aziraphale was moaning quietly, and gripping the base of Crowley’s wings, and holy mother of God and all the saints but Crowley thought he was going to _die_ of astonished pleasure when Aziraphale spread his legs and wrapped them around Crowley’s hips. 

And Crowley knew, then, what it was Aziraphale had been too shy to say. He ran a hand down Aziraphale’s thigh, lovingly, slowly, and curled his fingers around Aziraphale’s ass. Which, in itself, was enough to start Crowley trembling again, and he couldn’t help it, he had to say, “Angel, did you know that you have the most _gorgeous_ ass?”

Aziraphale giggled, a little nervously, Crowley thought.

“Aziraphale—did you…do you want me inssside you?”

Crowley did his best to keep the pleading from his voice. It was important, it was critical, that Aziraphale know he could say no if Crowley had guessed wrong. He feared he had failed, but Aziraphale’s legs tightened around him, as did his grip on the base of Crowley’s wings, and Aziraphale whispered “ _Yes_ ,” so fervently and so quickly that there really could be no room for doubt. 

“Fuck, Angel, I’m—I’m going to make this so good for you, sweetheart, I promise—“

He kissed Aziraphale again, less gently now, like he was fighting for air, and Aziraphale responded like he knew it. Opened his mouth for Crowley’s tongue and moaned around it, and Crowley finally pulled away, panting. 

He leaned over to open the bedside table drawer to retrieve the small jar of oil he kept there. Unscrewed the cap and dribbled some into his hands. He didn’t need to, of course, could have used a miracle for any or all of this. But he wanted all of it, wanted every awkward, jostling, sweaty moment. And so the only miracle he used was to warm to oil before touching his slick fingers to Aziraphale’s entrance, and he was glad of it. 

Aziraphale was breathing heavily as Crowley swirled the oil, rubbing and teasing. And when Crowley inserted one finger, the Angel whimpered and closed his eyes, but his mouth fell open. Pleasure, not pain. 

Even knowing, even hoping that he would soon be inside Aziraphale, Crowley thought that these moments were perhaps the most glorious of his life. This long interlude, when he was privileged to open Aziraphale up, slowly and patiently. Oil staining the sheets, Crowley harder than he’d ever been, and the sight of Aziraphale moaning and gasping and writhing on Crowley’s fingers. 

“Is this alright, Angel? Does thisss feel good?” Gently massaging Aziraphale’s prostate with the pads of two fingers.

“Mmm _yes_ , yes, Crowley, _God_ , yes—“

And a third finger, half the oil gone, Aziraphale’s fingers clenching in the sheets and in Crowley’s hair. 

And finally, breathlessly, the slow slide of Crowley’s cock into Aziraphale’s body. 

He held Aziraphale’s gaze as he did it, feeling punch drunk and overwhelmed with sensation, as though he were being filled himself. God, Aziraphale’s eyes in that moment. Wide, and blue, and trusting. Aziraphale’s curls slightly damp with sweat, a little darker. The flush on his cheeks, down his neck. Crowley had never seen anything so beautiful, and he had seen Heaven.

Crowley had imagined, since his last parting from Aziraphale, that their first time, if ever there was one, would be something frantic. Something hurried and desperate as he tried to touch the angel everywhere, no hope for a second time, or a third, no hope for slow mornings together, not anymore. 

And what they had together, that night in Crowley’s flat, _was_ desperate. Desperate, but so slow. He cradled Aziraphale’s head in one hand, supporting himself with the other, and loved Aziraphale with slow, deep deliberation. 

It left him nowhere to hide. No frenzy in which to bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck or loud slapping together of skin to cover his whispered pleas.

"Angel, please, _please_ — "

With Aziraphale tight and slick around him, holding him so closely, Crowley hardly knew what he was begging for. He only knew Aziraphale deserved his pleas, deserved his worship. Oh, Hell and damnation, the things he said, the things he _moaned_ —

"Angel—Angel, my sssweetheart, my joy—"

"So beautiful, so beautiful, God, you’re so _beautiful_ —"

"‘Ziraphale, _sweetheart_ , yes, Hell, yes—"

And Aziraphale? What did Aziraphale say, between his pants and cries and moans? His speech was broken, incoherent, but Crowley would remember the whispered fragments forever. 

"Crowley, Crowley, darling, lovely—"

"So lovely, feel so good—"

And when he said, 

“Crowley, _fuck_ , don’t stop, please, you feel so _good_ ”, Crowley found himself using a miracle to keep himself from finishing at the angel’s words, so desperate was he to keep Aziraphale’s commands. He was rewarded with the sensation of Aziraphale’s climax; tightening around Crowley’s cock, Aziraphale’s cum making the space between their bodies even slicker, and Crowley couldn’t bear it, the intimacy of it, the heat and the closeness, and he moaned like a dying thing, buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, and filled the angel with his seed. 

But the next morning, when he woke to an empty bed, he could only hear the words that _hadn’t_ been said. Aziraphale hadn’t whispered them, and Crowley had bitten them back time and time again. He’d only mouthed the words, silently, against Aziraphale’s neck as he’d finished, and he should have known, he should have _known_ that wouldn’t be enough to keep Aziraphale in his bed until dawn. 

_I love you,_ he hadn't said.

_I love you._

_Please stay._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["So you think you don't tempt me?"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23899294) by [Nymphalis_antiopa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalis_antiopa/pseuds/Nymphalis_antiopa)




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